#you have the perfect personality for swing shift

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (28 - Coming Home)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Can you believe we are more than halfway to the end? Thank you for sticking with me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Three years have passed.

A gentle exhale brushed your skin, slow and steady, like waves retreating from the shore. The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight slipping through the curtains—it was Kia’s arm draped loosely over your waist, her leg tangled with yours. She was still asleep, pressed close, her body radiating heat that expelled the never-ending cold of Reykjavik. Three years and you were still not used to its climate. You blinked once, twice, trying to shake away the remnants of dreams that clung to your mind. 

Then you shifted, careful not to wake Kia. But she stirred anyway, sensing your movement, her eyelids fluttering as she peeked at you through one half-lidded eye. Her dark hair was mussed, and you almost laughed at how absolutely perfect she looked—sleep-warmed cheeks, lips parted in a silent yawn. She fixed her eyes on you, and a smile slowly crawled its way to her dry lips.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still husky. 

You responded by pressing a soft kiss to her temple. In return, Kia took your hand and let her lips graze lightly across your knuckles. Your mornings had been like this nearly every day—quiet, simple, sweet. The kind of peace you never thought possible back when you were sweating through old mattresses in rundown rentals as Ronin. That life feels like a distant nightmare now—one Kia somehow managed to wake you from. 

You shifted to prop yourself on one elbow, looking down at her. “So… any chance you could stay home today?” you asked, light teasing in your tone as you massaged her neck, causing her to purr. “I know you have to work, but I was thinking… we could call it a personal day.”

She laughed weakly. “I can’t exactly make a habit of it. Besides, I don’t think my patients would appreciate me vanishing on a whim.” She reached to smooth the collar of your sleep shirt, her fingertips dancing down your collarbone. “You know I’d love to, though.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “You never bent the rules for me,” you said, hoping to coax another smile from her.

“I did,” she replied softly. “Just not the ones that put other people’s health at risk.”

“You’re irritatingly noble, Dr. Heimisson.”

She leaned in for a kiss. It lingered, your fingers sliding into her hair. You tilted your head, chasing more, your mouth parting slightly as your tongue brushed against hers—testing, asking. She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned in, her hand tightening at the back of your neck. You smiled into it, knowing exactly what you were doing. 

Then, just as things started to tip, she pulled back. “I’ll make us coffee,” she said, her voice low and a little reluctant. 

She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing just for a second before standing. Her scrubs were still folded on the chair from last night. Always neat.

By the time she’d pulled on a shirt and stepped out of the bedroom, you found yourself glancing around the room, the life you’d built together mapped out in the small details. A couple of photos on the dresser. A shared sock drawer. A small stack of your books in the corner (you’d stopped hoarding them a while ago), trading in the ones you’d finished for used copies you hadn’t, from the only bookstore in town. Sometimes, in moments like this, you could still feel the shape of who you used to be. The horrible things you’ve done. But it didn’t take over anymore. Not like it used to.

You passed into the kitchen and saw her hovering by the coffeemaker, quietly humming a tune you had taught her. She offered you a mug, steam curling into the air. 

“You heading out today?” she asked, her soft blue eyes curious. It’s your favorite part of her body. Eyes always held the most power over you, capable of commanding you in ways nothing else ever could.

“Just errands,” you answered. “Groceries, maybe. If you think of anything else we need, text me.”

She nodded before inching closer to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear like she always did. You reached past her for the sugar; her hip nudged yours, a silent order to hold still. You answered with a playful grin, letting her plant a quick kiss on your cheek before she slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind her. 

The house went still. You stood there for a while, basking in the quiet morning.

You didn’t know it yet, but that quiet wasn’t going to last.

—

A call came a few hours later. You were halfway through your grocery list, staring at tomatoes that didn’t look particularly ripe, when your phone vibrated. You missed it. But it was quickly followed by a text, signed by a name glowing on the screen that made your pulse spike.

Steve Rogers. You hadn’t heard that name in… well, in a long time.

You hadn’t really spoken to anyone from the old team in the last three years. Just a handful of letters from Natasha after she somehow tracked you down. You responded, politely, once. You told her you were okay, but asked her not to write again, and she respected that.

When you stepped into life with Kia, you swore off everything that came before. No ghosts, no familiar faces, a clean slate. You told yourself it was the only way anything could feel real again.

Though, somehow, you never managed to throw out Wanda’s things.

They stayed in the basement, buried in boxes you hadn’t opened in years. Somewhere back there were old photos, her worn red jacket. The ring you picked out together—meant to match Wanda’s—now hangs from a chain around your neck. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, but you couldn’t wear it either.

Hers, you imagine, turned to dust long ago.

Your phone when it rang again, causing you to jump in surprise. For an instant, you almost let it go to voicemail. Old instincts kicked in, though—your heart pounded with the sense that if you ignored it, you might have regretted it forever. So you tapped the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear.

“Y/N?”

That voice that used to inspire a room of heroes was unmistakable. It really was him. Your response got stuck in your throat, so you managed little more than, “Steve… yeah. Hey.”

He asked how you were, and you gave him the kind of answer people give when they don’t want to get into it. He tried to stretch the small talk, but you could feel it—this wasn’t that kind of call.

“You can skip the pleasantries, Steve,” you said, not unkindly.

He let out a quiet sigh, then got to the point. “There’s a way. A way to bring them back.”

You swore the world tilted. You gripped your phone tighter, your steps faltering. “What are you talking about?” you asked, but you already knew. The question was just instinct, something to fill the space where air had suddenly become hard to find.

Steve breathed heavily on the other end. This wasn’t some vague, wishful bring-them-back idea, you could tell that much already. Whatever it was, it ran deeper than a theory. It felt like driftwood tossed to the drowning—long overdue, and just barely enough to hold onto. And he was clearly trying to figure out how to explain it to you. Still, you held out any hope that it was true.

“We’re close to a plan,” he explained. “We think we can reverse what happened five years ago—undo the Snap entirely. Tony and Bruce have figured out how the Quantum Realm—”

“What’s that?”

Steve paused. You could practically hear the internal God help me sigh. It made your lips quirk a little into a small smile.

“It’s… okay, so, it’s like a pocket dimension where time moves differently. Or slower. Or maybe not. I don’t know, it’s—” He stopped himself, clearly spiraling. “Look, kid, if you want more science, you’re gonna have to ask Banner or Tony. Or basically anyone else on the team.”

You let out a small, stunned breath. “Okay…”

“All I know is, they’re almost entirely sure that it would work. And we need you.”

That last part settled into your chest and lodged itself there. 

“We’ll retrieve the Infinity Stones from different points in our past, bring them back here, and use them to bring everyone back,” Steve continued. “But we’ll only have one shot at this. Once we’ve fixed things, we’ll return the Stones to their rightful moments so we don’t create alternate timelines.”

“You’re saying time travel?” It came out in a choked whisper.

“Yes. It’s a ‘time heist,’ as Scott calls it.”

The longer the call dragged on, the more questions piled up—none with clear answers. But for now, you let them sit. There’d be time to sort through the mess later.

“What exactly do you need from me?”

“Tony’s got two jobs for you,” he began. “First, there’s a mineral he needs for the time-space GPS we’re building. Without it, the machine might be too unstable to use. There’s a museum in Houston that has it. It’s heavily guarded. Unofficially, too, since this mineral isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“And after I hand over this mineral?” you asked.

“You’ll join the team to retrieve the stones.”

It sounded simple enough. But you were curious about one more thing. 

“Why me?” you asked.

“This has to be a stealth job, and with Natasha going after Clint, there’s no one else who can handle this off-the-radar. You’ve got the skill and the anonymity.”

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the ‘end call’ button, giving yourself one last chance to forget about all this. “So… no official channels?”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “We don’t want to risk alerting the government, or anyone else. If this fails, it could devastate people all over again.”

“You said it would work,” you replied evenly.

“I know this will work. It has to.”

You wanted to laugh at the irony. The phone felt hot against your ear.

“Do I have time to think about it?” you asked.

Steve sighed. “You have until tonight.”

—

The hours between that call and Kia’s arrival home were excruciating. You found yourself pacing the living room, your mind stewing in guilt as it replayed Wanda’s laughter, the perfect shape of her face and the feel of her hand in yours. Over and over and over again. 

And then there was Kia. The woman who’d patiently, gently pieced your broken heart back together, who had stayed through the wreckage until life began to feel solid again. Who loved you at your worst. Was it even right to push against destiny like this? To rewrite history, bend the universe to your will, and reverse events already set in motion?

But as quickly as you questioned it, your own logic countered: nothing about Thanos snapping half of all life into oblivion had ever been natural or just. Maybe this—this chance Steve offered—wasn't defiance at all, but a way to correct a cruel imbalance, to make things whole again. You’d never felt whole since that incident. And neither did Kia even though she’d never said it out loud. 

You told yourself firmly this wasn't a choice between Wanda and Kia. But deep down, from the moment Steve uttered those three impossible words—bring them back—you knew the decision had already been made. If there was even the slightest chance to undo the damage, you'd reach out and take it, consequences be damned.

By the time Kia’s key rattled in the lock, you’ve turned over Steve’s proposal a thousand times in your head. She stepped in, setting her work bag on the nearest chair. The way she looked at you—face drawn, concern evident in her eyes—told you she could sense your tension.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, drawing near.

You forced yourself to speak. You told her about Steve’s call, about the mission to reverse the Snap, the potential to bring back everyone who vanished. The unspoken word at the center was Wanda, but there was so much more: thousands of families, including Kia’s. Her own daughter, her husband. 

Kia stood perfectly still as she processed it. You saw the flicker of hope in her eyes even as her features twisted with longing and fear. 

Then she spoke softly, her voice trembling. “Is this really possible? Can they… can they bring my daughter back?”

That question squeezed your heart. Suddenly, you realized that your desire to see Wanda again paled next to Kia’s longing for her child. She had carried that emptiness with her every single day. 

“Yes,” you managed to say, your voice thick. “We think so.”

Kia’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t cry, but you could feel how much she’s holding back.

“Then do it,” she said. “Help them.”

You reached for her hand, needing to feel her close, even as the distance between what you had and what might come stretched wider by the second. Neither of you said it out loud, but the truth hung there. If this plan worked, everything would change. Bringing everyone back meant rewriting entire lives, and this thing between you and Kia, it didn’t exactly fit into the world before, or the one that might follow.

Even thinking about it felt wrong. Selfish. Ugly.

You could feel yourself splitting into two realities. This reality with Kia, and the reality that dissolved with Wanda. You couldn’t find the words. You just held her hand tighter.

Kia looked away for a moment, like she could already see the ripple effects waiting on the horizon. Then her eyes found yours again. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “we do this for them. For everyone who didn’t get a choice.”

In that moment, your love for her swelled and bloomed and gave you courage. 

—

You left before dawn the next morning, a small duffel in hand, its contents carefully chosen and arranged the night before. Sleep had come in sparse increments, anxiety keeping you company. Houston was a thirteen-hour flight away; Tony had arranged an unregistered Quinjet, and you spent the journey reviewing the museum’s floor plans on a tablet.

The museum in question was near the outskirts of downtown Houston, housed in a stately old building renowned for its obscure geological exhibits. The public wasn’t aware of just how rare that “obscure” gem in its vault truly was. According to Tony’s notes, it was a type of mineral that reacted unusually to quantum energy—a piece critical for stabilizing the time-space GPS he and Bruce Banner were building. Without it, the device might overload on its own power.

As soon as you landed, you made your way to a safehouse on the city’s edge—just a nondescript apartment Tony had secured. There, you changed into dark clothing that offered maximum agility and minimal interference. You double-checked your infiltration tools—glass cutters, a slim electronic lockpick, and a tiny EMP device for any modern security measures.

There were nerves crawling under your skin you hadn’t felt in years. After everything—the missions,bloodshed you and Clint left scattered across cities, you didn’t think you were capable of feeling this shaken anymore.

Maybe it was because the entire operation hinged on this one task. If you failed, the rest of the plan fell apart. You cursed Tony under your breath. Now it made sense why he picked you. If things went sideways, you were the easiest to blame. He probably never thought much of you to begin with.

But he wasn’t wrong to choose you. Because no one had more riding on this than you, and no one was more determined to see it through.

Kia’s face flashed in your mind. Then Wanda’s. You forced your thoughts back to the present mission. “Let’s do this,” you muttered. 

It was close to midnight when you arrived at the museum. The streets were quiet, most of the late-night commuters having already cleared out. You surveyed the main entrance from a safe distance—bright spotlights illuminated the grand facade, and security cameras perched like watchful owls along the eaves. Slipping around the side, you found a smaller service door just beyond a chain-link fence. There was a single guard on patrol, circling the perimeter with the slow, practiced boredom of someone who never expected trouble.

You timed the guard’s route, waiting behind a low hedge until he disappeared around the next corner. A quick jolt from your custom lockpick shorted the rusted padlock on the fence; it fell open with a dull click. You eased through, crossing the short distance to the service door in a half-crouch. Its old keypad glowed faintly. You attached a signal disruptor over the panel and waited, heart pounding in your ears, until the tiny light flickered green. The door clicked open.

Inside, darkness swallowed you. Only emergency exit signs and faint overhead safety bulbs gave any illumination. You consulted the mental map you’d memorized from Tony’s briefing, picturing the route to the restricted vault near the geological exhibits. There’d be motion sensors in the main corridors, so you stayed pressed to the walls, gliding past an open archway into a side hallway. You activated your handheld scanner, just enough to detect where infrared beams might crisscross. Sure enough, a series of faint red lines sliced through the corridor ahead. You ducked below one beam, then twisted sideways to avoid another. The entire maneuver would have made your old trainers proud.

Though there was a dull ache in your lower back from having been sedentary all these years.

Step by careful step, you progressed until you reached the thick, steel-reinforced door of the vault. A digital keypad glowed in the quiet gloom, showing an eight-digit lock. You expected that. What you hadn’t expected was the second biometric scanner installed next to it—an update not in Tony’s blueprint. You forced yourself to calm down, reminding yourself you’d done this before. Stealth ops always required a bit of improvisation. 

You removed a small device from your belt pouch—another one of Tony’s countless inventions. It emitted a pulse that temporarily scrambled biometric scanners, forcing them to default to a bypass code if the user had one. But that code changed daily. You hoped the museum staff wouldn’t have updated the secondary system just yet.

By some cosmic stroke of luck (or Tony’s genius), the device beeped once, and the scanner’s screen flickered. A prompt for a four-digit override code replaced the biometric prompt. With your electronic lockpick engaged, you let it cycle through potential combinations at high speed. Tense seconds ticked by. Finally, a soft click hissed from the latch, and the vault door slid open two inches, revealing a small interior chamber lined with secure cases.

Your target lay in a sealed glass cylinder at the center, the mineral’s deep violet hue faintly luminous even in the shadows. In that moment, you sensed how important it was, how it seemed like a full circle moment. This was the literal keystone for rewriting history, for forging a path back to life as it once was. Or as close as it could get.

Carefully, you placed a glass cutter against the cylinder. The diamond tip whirred almost silently, creating a neat circular hole in the thick glass. You inserted a slim vacuum rod and slipped out the mineral. It was heavier than expected, humming with an odd energy in your hand.

Before you left, you remembered your promise. You took a small folded note from your pocket (paper, so it couldn’t be easily traced), and placed it inside the now-empty cylinder. 

It read:

“I’m sorry I had to do this. Don’t worry—I’ll return what I borrowed exactly two weeks from today. It needs to save the world first.”

You signed it with only a small symbol at the bottom—a private insignia you once used on covert ops, but nothing that would blatantly identify you. Then you turned, tucking the mineral into a padded case in your suit.

A short ride later, you were safely back at the safehouse, the artifact secured. You tossed your gear onto the small kitchen table and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The note you left would cause a stir; the museum might tighten security. But you planned to keep your promise. 

You just hoped you’d live to see that day.

—

Three days later, you’re back where it all started. 

You thought you’d be a little teary-eyed, considering this is where you’ve spent nearly half of your life. But what you felt instead was relief. Relief that the compound still stood. You watched the building for a long moment, soaking up the calm before the storm. In your right hand, you clutched the mineral that would complete the time machine. 

“Aren’t you coming inside?” 

You’d know that voice anywhere.

Clint Barton stood a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, looking nothing like the Ronin persona he’d worn over the past few years. He looked more like the old Clint, the one you didn’t know you missed so terribly. 

You offered a faint nod and took a step forward, your boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Didn’t expect to see you here first,” you said.

He gave you a wry smile. “Didn’t expect to be here at all.”

You exhaled slowly. The mineral pulsed faintly in your hand—your hand that had once gripped a weapon more than anything else, had learned to hold Wanda’s fingers with reverence, and later, Kia’s with gratitude.

Clint’s gaze dropped to it. “That’s what I think it is?”

You gave a small nod. “Final piece.”

“So… we’re really doing this?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. “I’m not sure we are. This part’s on me.” You offered Clint the mineral and he cupped it carefully, turning it over in his hand.

“I thought you’d be suiting up with us,” he said. “Steve and Tony said you’d bring the piece. Didn’t think you’d just—”

“Drop it off and leave?” you finished, managing a faint smile. “That was the plan.”

Clint tilted his head. “Mind telling me why?”

“I told Steve and Tony I’d help find the last component. That’s it. That felt… enough.”

Clint stared at you for a beat. After all these years, he knew you too well to take your words at face value. “That’s all there is to it?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “No. Of course not.”

Clint waited, giving you the space to say it when you were ready.

“There’s a whole life waiting for me,” you said. “Far away from this place. With Kia. We built something that doesn’t need saving. And if I sign up for this—really sign up for this—I’d have to see it through to the end. To the moment someone snaps their fingers and brings everyone back.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze.

“And if she’s there, if Wanda comes back before I’m ready—” your voice faltered. “I don’t know if I’d be able to make a fair choice.”

Clint was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes soft. Then he nodded, slow and solemn.

“I get it,” he said. “God, I really do.”

He kicked at the gravel lightly. “I used to tell myself I went down that path to protect my family. After they were gone, I needed someone to blame for the world falling apart. You know that better than anyone.”

“I do,” you murmured.

“I dragged you down with me,” Clint added. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “No. We dragged each other. We weren’t… good for one another back then. We weren’t accountable. We made each other worse.”

Clint looked away, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

You both stood there in silence for a while, watching the horizon blur into a late afternoon haze.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” you asked.

“It has to,” he said.

“And when it does?” you asked. “What are you going to do when you get them back?”

He glanced at you, resignation in his eyes.

“I’m going to surrender,” he said simply. “Turn myself in. The Accords were a mess, sure, but they weren’t wrong about everything. We need to be kept in check. All of us. We don’t get to come back from the things we did without consequence.”

You hadn’t expected that. Not from the man who once broke half a dozen laws to make it home in time for his kid’s birthday.

“You’d really do that?” you asked quietly.

Clint nodded. “Even if the mission works. Even if they come back… I won’t get to just go back. I’m not the person they left, Y/N.”

You swallowed, his words hitting too close to home.

“They’ll still love you,” you offered, though it felt insufficient. They didn’t land with the comfort you intended. Maybe because you didn’t believe them yourself.

Because you’d been asking yourself the same question for years. 

Kia had offered you peace when the world gave you nothing but silence. She saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen. She gave you a reason to keep going.

And yet, Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know. And the truth of not knowing had been eating at you for longer than you were willing to admit.

“Yeah,” Clint said, almost smiling.

You nodded slowly, not sure whether to admire him or mourn him.

“I hope they see the man who kept trying,” you said softly.

Clint gave a small smile. “You too.”

He held out the mineral to return it, but you shook your head.  

“Give my regards to Tony,” you said. 

You reached out, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bring them home,” you said. “All of them.”

“I will.”

He looked down at the mineral in his hand again, and then back at you.

“Go,” Clint said. “Before you change your mind.”

You nodded, taking one last look at what remained of your past before turning away. You wouldn’t look back. Not this time.

—

You returned to Reyjavik a few days later. By then, it was all over the news—

The impossible had happened. The Avengers had done it. They brought everyone back. 

Airports were flooded with reunions. There was celebration and chaos. The world was finally waking up from a nightmare. And you… you were still trying to process the fact that it worked.

The first thing you did was look for Kia. You needed to see her face, hold her hand—just know she was okay. You walked into the apartment and found it empty, cold in a way that went beyond the absence of people. Kia wasn’t waiting for you at the door. 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to you, shoulders rigid. Her fingers were curled tightly around a mug. 

You spoke her name—soft, almost a prayer.

She turned, and that’s when you saw it. Something in her had already retreated.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she said.

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You hadn’t expected a joyful reunion, not with everything this victory implied. But you also didn’t expect it to feel this fragile, like tiptoeing across eggshells.

Kia looked down at her lap, and for the first time, you couldn’t read her at all. Moments later, she stood up and walked to the window. 

“Maria is back,” she said. “And so is her father.”

‘Her father’, and not ‘my husband’. A deliberate choice of words. Kia talked to you often about them, but it was different now that they aren't gone.

You forced a smile. Whatever this might mean for you, some part of you was genuinely happy for her. Deeply, fiercely happy.

Because you remembered the way Kia used to trace the shape of her daughter’s photo with her fingers late at night when she thought you were asleep. You remembered how she’d spoken about her husband with reverence and regret in equal measure. The two deepest holes punched through her soul—now filled again.

“They’re back,” you said softly, like you needed to say it yourself to believe it.

She still hadn’t looked at you. “They’ve relocated to the other side of town for now. Temporarily.”

Temporarily.

A quiet warning. A gentle ending dressed up as a maybe.

You nodded, jaw clenched against the tremble that wanted to rise.

“Are you okay?” you asked, because it mattered more than anything else. Even now. 

Especially now.

She turned to face you then, finally. Her eyes were raw, rimmed with exhaustion and uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “You gave me a reason to keep living. You helped me breathe again. But he’s here. They’re here. And I—God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Your heart split clean down the middle, slow and silent.

You took a step back, giving her space even though you were already drowning in the distance.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you said. “You’re allowed to not know.”

Her eyes continued to brim with tears. “This—them—none of it would be possible without you,” she prattled on.

You opened your mouth, not knowing what to say, but then she closed the distance between you.

And kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Tasting of salt, mostly. Her hands tangled in the collar of your jacket like she was scared to let go, and for a moment, you let yourself believe.

But you felt it. The tremor in her fingers. The guilt in her kiss. How it was more of gratitude than desire.

“I love you,” she said again and again against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

Because you believed her. You really did.

But you also knew.

You had always known.

This was the last fire before the ashes. She would always carry you in her heart. She would always remember what you gave her. But you would not be the person she came home to when the dust settled.

And you would never, ever ask her to be. You wouldn’t be the one to imprison her in your arms when everything she’d ever lost had finally come back to her.

You brushed her cheek with the backs of your fingers and kissed her forehead. 

“I know,” you said quietly. 

She tried to hold your gaze, eyes swimming with confusion, as if she could see something in you starting to slip away. She wiped at her face, breath shaky. “What should I make for dinner?”

You smiled at her gently. “Nothing. Just relax, okay? I’ll pick something up from our favorite place.”

Kia blinked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded.

You gave her one more look, soft and grateful, then turned your back before she could see you fall apart.

And as soon as you reached the patio, your shoulders shook.

You pressed your hand to your chest to steady yourself, biting back the sound that wanted to escape your throat.

Because that kiss—her love—was real.

But it wasn’t enough. 

—

You turned yourself in to the international authority a week later, after making sure everything was in place for you to disappear cleanly.

Steve handled the details—wiping your existence from every known database, scrubbing records, clearing traces. All except one. A single dossier remained, buried in Stark’s system, written by Natasha herself. Steve couldn’t bring himself to erase it. Not something she’d written. Not even if it’s something as small as a file about you.

You understood. All you asked was that he marked your status as deceased. He tried to talk you out of it, of course. That there were other ways. 

But when that didn’t work, he reached for the one thing he thought might—

“You were the first person Wanda looked for,” he’d said quietly. Well, you weren’t that person from five years ago. Wanda would’ve been mistaken. 

You took Clint’s place without asking his permission. He had too much to lose, and you figured you didn’t—at least not compared to him. You listed the crimes in clear, practiced detail. The missions you’d completed. The blood on your hands. The times you looked away. You took it all. 

Owned it all.

Not because they were all yours—but because someone had to.

They processed you like any other criminal. Stripped you down. Tagged your belongings. Asked you questions you didn’t flinch answering.

Clint was furious when he found out. He caught up with you before the transfer. They had you in cuffs, but it was immaterial. The guards gave you both a moment, recognizing that Clint wasn’t going to be stopped by protocol. After everything, they’d grown lenient with the Avengers. Especially now, with the miracle of the return still fresh in everyone’s minds. They didn’t even understand why they were incarcerating one of them in the first place.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint’s voice cracked, his hands fisting at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan.”

You didn’t bother correcting him. There had never really been a plan after you retrieved that mineral. 

You shrugged. “Oops.”

Clint slammed his fist against the nearest wall, startling the guard by the door. “Goddammit, I was supposed to be the one—”

“Your family is waiting for you,” you told him gently. “Natasha didn’t sacrifice herself so you could just throw your life away. You know that.”

The name alone unraveled him. “And she didn’t die so you could do this, either.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m making sure something good comes from all of it.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged in defeat. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the desire to talk you out of it, to remind you that Wanda would want a choice in the matter. But you had already made yours, and time felt precious then.

“I’m not just taking the fall for you, Clint,” you said softly. “I’m taking responsibility. For the things I’ve done. The choices I made. I can carry this.”

His eyes reddened, tears threatening to spill. You’d only ever seen him like this once before.

“I never wanted this,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he asked the one thing you’d been waiting for. “What about Wanda?”

Wanda was alive and well now. There’s no more war left to fight. You could still picture her living in the suburbs, watching her sitcoms, maybe even finding love again someday.

“Give her back everything,” you said. “The things I’ve kept. The property in New Jersey. It’s hers. She should have a home.”

“It’s going to kill her to think you’re gone.”

You exhaled slowly. “Wanda’s stronger than anyone thinks. Stronger than she thinks.”

Clint shook his head. “She’s not stronger than losing you.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. There’s just the hollow ache of knowing you wouldn’t be there to see if your words held true. Instead, you merely asked Clint to look after her. 

And when the guard finally escorted Clint out, your entire frame gave out like a deflated balloon.

You spent your first night in the cell sitting upright, hands in your lap, staring at the far wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you. The world outside moved on.

And inside, you stayed very still.

You had given Wanda your heart.

You had given Kia your hope.

And now, you have given away your liberty.

Somewhere, in a kinder universe, they all got to live their lives without grief. And maybe, you were there with them. 

[frombookstoretobookstore]

Cat Dad Abbot

A/n: Because I have a cat and I love Abbot Masterlist

Abbot x Reader

“Y/n, it’s staring at me again.”

“Y/n, it’s touching me.”

“Y/n, there’s cat fur on my scrubs again!”

Jack Abbot is not a cat person, and he barely tolerates his girlfriend’s cat. The thing is always tripping him up, getting fur all over his things, and worst of all, he can’t tell if the thing likes him, despises him, or both.

Sure, the thing has fur and big round eyes, so he’s sure it falls in the classification of ‘cute’, but pets aren’t his thing. He doesn’t understand why people keep cats around. A dog? Sure, they usually like to go for walks, run around, be outside. But cats? They shit in a box for Christ’s sake.

To make matters worse, he’s almost positive the cat only sleeps when Y/n is sleeping at night. Meaning the thing decides to terrorize him when he’s trying to sleep after a night shift. She’s constantly pawing at his face while dropping a toy near his hand.

On the weekends, when he and Y/n can sleep on a relatively similar schedule, he gets to sleep deeper, the cat is less likely to be tearing down the walls when his partner is sleeping next to him. But tonight? The cat’s really testing his patience.

“Y/n, get it off.” He huffs. He’s lying on his back waiting for her to come to bed. Her cat, Clara, has decided he’s the perfect victim for her pursuits. She’s immediately jumping onto his chest, tail swishing, as she proceeds to curl up on him. Even him sneezing from the few loose strands of cat fur in his nose can’t disturb her.

“She likes you!” He hears his girlfriend coo from their connected bathroom. He turns his head and shoots a glare her way. The movement causing the cat to stir, turn towards him, and start using his stubble as her own personal brush. 

Clara is headbutting his chin aggressively as she scratches her face, chin, and cheeks against his rough stubble. He again hears his girlfriend continue cooing and the unmistakable sound of her taking pictures.

Every time he tries to remove the cat from his chest and face, she slinks right back onto him to continue her onslaught against his beard. Moving quickly, he pushes the cat off his chest and sits up.

“That’s not going to stop her!” His girlfriend laughs as her cat quickly stands on its hind legs to bat at his face. He glares down at the cat as it starts furiously purring. He looks to his girlfriend for help.

“Stop being so grumpy! She clearly likes you! With my past boyfriends she’d just sit in the corner and glare at them. She once even peed in one of their shoes.” His girlfriend is applying moisturizer as he grumbles with the cat touching him.

“Change the subject.” He huffs, over protectiveness flaring in his chest at the mention of her previous (and unqualified) flings.

“Hey, just saying. None of them ever got the approval of her nor were they able to make me cum as quick as you are.” He huffs out a laugh, pushing the cat away from his face again. Clara sits down and begins to groom herself aggressively.

“Your breath stinks.” He mumbles to the cat, causing her to look up at him with her leg still in the air. 

“And you’re a grumpy old man who is scared of sharing his girlfriend with a damn cat.” Y/n says with a laugh as she sits down on her side of the bed, the cat immediately walking over to her for attention.

He sighs at the sight, the two enjoying each other’s company, as he starts pulling his prosthetic off, a spare sneaker still attached to it. He feels relief as he pulls it off, setting it against the nightstand. The cat immediately coming over to investigate.

He looks down at the feline tiredly, the cat’s tail swishing as she sits next to him as he pulls his legs up and over onto the bed, swinging the covers over him. He holds a hand out and the cat head butts him with such force, she almost knocks herself over. He scratches the space between her ears and the cat erupts into vibrations. His girlfriend chuckles softly, her most recent romance novel pick already open and in her hands.

Abbot lays back and lets the cat fall into his side, the vibrations reverberating into his own chest. The slight static of the police scanner faint in the background grounding him as he settles in, enjoying the quiet night.

He turns his head slightly, hands behind his head, as he watches his partner read, her lip between her teeth.

“Let me know when you need me to act out a scene.” He smiles as she laughs and looks over to him, their hands intertwining. 

“I’ll let you know.” She hums, tracing the back of his hand with her thumb.

Clara jumps down to the hardwood floor next to Abbot, her tiny six-pound body making a large ‘thud’ as she lands. Abbot groans, knowing what’s coming next.

They both hear the familiar scratching as Clara grabs his prosthetic by the laces of the sneaker and drags it under the bed. He can hear her kicking it with her back legs, the sound of titanium meeting cat claws evident from under the bed.

Y/n groans. “You do this every time Jack, you put it there on purpose knowing she’ll do this.” She’s up and trying to shove herself under the bed, fingers a mere inch from the cat.

He laughs slightly, hearing his girlfriend swear at her cat as she tries to wrestle the prosthetic from her.

“At least we can agree on one thing,” he says, tilting his head up to watch his girlfriend hold the prosthetic in triumph, “she hates that damn thing as much as I do.” He laughs when his girlfriend groans, placing the prosthetic on top of his nightstand as he continues to cackle.

“When your prosthetist calls, asking why there are so many scratches on that thing, I’m telling him you bait the cat nightly to let her destroy it.” She huffs, pushing his hands away in mock anger as she crawls back into bed.

“At least it has battle scars to match me.” He laughs, his girlfriend hitting him in the chest lightly as he pulls her into him, settling in for the night.

---- I'm sick and I'm writing self indulgent fics for my pleasure, hope y'all like it!

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 15.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

a/n: was gonna post another sneak peek, but thought the entire chapter would be better :) as always, pls let me know of any typos

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

It’s a nice, warm morning. The sun’s out, there’s birds chirping, and a small breeze that feels lovely against the skin. And the best part of it all is that Hana called in sick today. Her now boyfriend, Naoya, reassured her everything would be alright and that he had an entire day planned out for just them two. Being taken care of by another person was a new feeling to Hana, one she hadn’t experienced since her last boyfriend. 

She’s never been with a rich man before. And she’s especially never been to an upscale golf course, wearing a tight, sleeveless top with an even tighter little skirt. Naoya is in his stance a few feet in front of her, club in hand as he readies his shot. She can’t help but feel slightly out of place.  

The brightness of the day feels almost surreal to Hana, like she’s stumbled into someone else’s life. The manicured grass stretches endlessly before her, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly cut greens, mixed with faint hints of expensive cologne, clings to the air. She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, feeling self-conscious even though Naoya hadn’t once looked at her with anything less than approval since they arrived.

Naoya stands confidently, the sunlight catching the sleek fabric of his polo as he lines up his shot. His form is perfect, practiced—a natural at this, just like everything else in his life. He’s effortless in a way that makes Hana’s chest ache with something she can’t name. Admiration, maybe. Longing. Envy. She doesn’t know.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. The outfit he bought her might make her look the part, but internally, she feels worlds apart from the other women here. Women with polished nails, designer sunglasses, and easy smiles born from years of moving through places like this without a second thought. Hana crosses her arms, squinting against the sun. She watches Naoya swing, sending the ball sailing with a crisp, clean sound that echoes across the open course. He turns back toward her with a wide, satisfied smile, the cockiness in his expression unmistakable.

“You’re up, babe,” he calls out, motioning her forward.

Babe.

The word feels strange, too, curling around her heart like a new pair of shoes she hasn’t broken in yet. It’s sweet, almost nauseatingly so, and it makes her feel dizzy, like maybe she could get used to this if she let herself.

Gathering her nerves, she steps forward, clumsily taking the club he offers her. Their fingers brush, and Naoya chuckles under his breath, stepping closer to adjust her grip. His hands are warm, firm, guiding her in a way that’s both helpful and possessive.

“Relax,” he murmurs near her ear. “You’re too stiff. Golf’s supposed to be fun.”

Easy for you to say. Everything about today, about him, about this life, feels so far out of reach for someone like her. But she forces a smile, tightens her fingers around the club, and lets him guide her swing. Even if she feels completely out of place, there’s a small, stubborn part of her that wants to fit. To belong.

Maybe, if she fakes it long enough, she eventually will.

“Ah, so close,” Naoya sighs, watching the tiny white ball miss its hole, veering way off to the right. “You would think you’d be a little better after watching me all this time.”

“I—sorry.” She scratches the back of her neck. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves her off, calling down the cart girl. Hana follows him as they approach the wide selection of cooled drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.

“Hi, Naoya. What can I get for ‘ya today?” The blonde woman manning the cart asks, a smile on her pink lips. She tilts her head, regarding him with familiarity. 

Naoya barely spares her a glance, his attention more focused on the line of bottles glistening under the sun. “The usual,” he says smoothly, reaching for his wallet without hesitation.

The cart girl giggles, a light, practiced sound that makes Hana’s stomach twist ever so slightly. She’s seen that look before, the way the girl leans just a little closer than necessary, the way her hand lingers when she passes Naoya the drink. It’s casual. Too casual.

Hana steps back instinctively, feeling like she’s intruding on something she wasn’t invited to witness. She folds her arms loosely across her chest, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the sudden sourness in her mouth show on her face.

“You’re looking good today,” the cart girl adds with a wink, handing Naoya a cold can.

He finally looks at her, flashing a charming smirk, the same one Hana had thought was just for her. “Yeah? Must be the company.” He says it without thinking, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hana, almost like an afterthought.

The cart girl’s eyes follow his, her smile faltering for just a second when she realizes Hana’s standing there. Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, assessing, judging, maybe even pitying. Hana isn’t sure which would be worse.

Naoya tosses some cash onto the cart’s counter, far more than necessary for just a drink, and motions for Hana to follow him again. She does, but the small crack left behind by the encounter digs deep into her chest. As they climb back into his own golf cart, Naoya takes a swig of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t mind her,” he says casually, like he can sense her unease. “She flirts with everyone who’s got money. It’s nothing personal.”

Hana forces a small laugh, nodding like she believes him.

But deep down, a quiet voice whispers:

It’s not nothing to you, though.

And that’s what matters.

Naoya revs the cart up again, speeding toward the next hole, completely unaware—or maybe just uncaring of the way Hana sits a little stiffer beside him now, the sun suddenly feeling a little too hot on her skin.

“So,” he speaks up, causing Hana’s head to turn toward him. “You and bestie still not speaking?”

The mention of you causes her to stiffen, a frown forming on her lips. She scoffs. “No. And I don’t plan on it.”

“Shame, thought you said you guys were good friends.”

“We were, until she started changing when that…that asshole came in her life.” 

Naoya hums, stopping the cart at the next destination. He doesn’t get out immediately, instead letting the engine idle while he leans back lazily against the seat, his hand casually resting on the steering wheel. His eyes, however, are sharp and calculating as he watches Hana’s face carefully.

 “Guess that’s what money and status do to people, huh?” he says, a little too lightheartedly. “Especially when it’s someone like Satoru Gojo.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a slow, rhythmic beat. “Big name. Big wallet. Big ego.”

Hana huffs, crossing her arms and looking away toward the sprawling green of the course. “He ruined her,” she mutters bitterly. “She’s not the same person anymore. Everything’s about him now, about his life, his rules. Like she doesn’t even think for herself anymore.”

Naoya lets her words hang between them for a moment, pretending to be focused on something off in the distance. When he speaks again, his tone is almost lazy, casual almost. “You know…” he starts, drawing out the thought like it just occurred to him, “people like him… they don’t change for anyone. And they don’t really let anyone get close unless there’s something they can use.”

Hana furrows her brows, turning to look at him again.

Naoya catches her glance and shrugs innocently. “Just saying,” he continues. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s caught up in something way bigger than she realizes. Maybe even something that could end badly for her if she’s not careful.” He gives a small, knowing smirk, like he’s letting her in on some forbidden secret,  like he’s doing her a favor. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not mixed up in all that,” he adds smoothly. “But…” He trails off, feigning hesitation before flashing her a boyish grin. “You probably know more about what’s going on with them than anyone else, huh? Even if you’re not talking to her anymore.”

Hana shifts uncomfortably. She does know a lot, or at least, she used to.

And despite the way things ended between you two, there’s a bitter part of her that still wants to talk about it. Wants to air out the injustice she feels. Wants someone—anyone—to understand how wrong it all was. Naoya picks up on her hesitation immediately and presses just a little further, voice dropping to something more coaxing.

“Come on, Hana. You can trust me. You know I’m on your side.” He leans in slightly, eyes locking with hers, that charming smile never once faltering. “I’m just curious,” he murmurs, “about how deep she is with the Gojo group. About what Satoru’s really after. That’s all.”

He says it so sweetly, like it’s harmless. Like it’s just friendly concern. But beneath it all, Hana can’t shake the feeling that there’s a lot more riding on her answer than he’s letting on.

“I…I don’t know.” She admits, shrugging lightly. “I mean, they have a kid. I don’t see why else they’d still need to be close. She used to tell me when I first met her that she’d never go back to her ex, but that was before I knew who he was.”

Naoya listens intently, his expression carefully neutral, but his mind is already calculating the information. He nods slowly, leaning back slightly as if he’s processing her words, but really, he’s already piecing everything together. “Hm.” He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the cart. “I guess when you throw a kid into the mix, things change. But… I don’t know, Hana. That just sounds a little too clean, don’t you think?” He tilts his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “The way she acted before, all that ‘never going back’ talk… Do you really believe she’d just… forget about him, that easily? People like Satoru, they don’t let things go so easily. Not when they have so much to gain.”

He watches her closely, gauging her reaction to the way he phrases it.

“You sure she’s not just… saying that? Or maybe she’s in deeper than she lets on?”

Hana shifts slightly, clearly torn. She’s not sure if she should give him more, but something about the way Naoya talks makes her feel like he already knows more than she does, as if he’s playing her like a pawn and she’s too distracted by her anger to realize it. “I don’t know,” she says again, voice quieter this time, her uncertainty growing. “I mean, you’re right. I’m not sure. She told me everything was over, but she… she’s always been so secretive about him. Like there’s something she’s hiding. I don’t think it’s just the kid, you know? There’s more. But she wouldn’t talk about it.”

Naoya���s eyes glint with barely-contained satisfaction, his hand moving casually to pick up his drink from the cup holder. He takes a slow sip before speaking again, voice smooth and coaxing. “Right, that makes sense. There’s always something people like her hide. But…” He pauses, letting the words linger. “If you really want to help her—if you care about her at all—you should let me know what’s going on. People like Satoru don’t play fair, and your friend might be in way deeper than she thinks. I’m not trying to pressure you, but if you know anything that could help… It could keep her out of something she can’t get out of.”

The words are wrapped in a thin layer of concern, but the underlying message is clear: if she doesn’t give him more, he might just find another way to get it. Hana feels a slight shiver of unease crawling up her spine, but she doesn’t know why, not completely. Part of her still wants to trust Naoya, but the other part is beginning to feel like there’s something more to this conversation than meets the eye.

“So, what do you think?” Naoya presses, his smile gentle but determined. “Think you could tell me a little more? For her sake, of course.”

She racks her mind, biting at her lip in thought. Scratching her head. Pulled between two sides of wanting to keep her friend’s privacy, but also wanting to please the man who’s been giving her so much and more. Sure, he has his mistakes, but so does she. So does everyone. So do you. 

“I…I don’t know.” She mutters. 

Naoya’s smile falters, assessing her for a few silent seconds before humming and getting out of the cart. He stretches lazily, the sun casting a soft glow over his sharp features as he plants the club into the ground and leans on it. His stance is casual, almost careless, but Hana can feel the shift in his energy, a subtle coolness creeping into the air between them.

“That’s alright.” Naoya shrugs, tossing a look over his shoulder at her. “Take your time. Not like I’m in a rush.”

But his tone says otherwise, the underlying warning barely concealed. He straightens up, walking a few steps to the edge of the green, surveying the course as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a turn. Hana stays seated in the cart, her hands worrying the hem of her little skirt, heart thudding against her chest. She knows better. She knows she shouldn’t be entertaining this. She shouldn’t even be thinking about sharing anything about you. You were her friend first—her best friend.

But then she thinks about the nights Naoya spoils her with expensive dinners. About the shopping trips. The way he says she’s beautiful, special, that he sees something in her that no one else does.

Maybe it’s not so bad to share a little.

Maybe it’s just harmless.

And maybe… just maybe… you deserved a little karma anyway, after abandoning her.

She steps out of the cart, heels clicking lightly on the concrete path as she makes her way toward him. Naoya glances back, smiling a little, patient, expectant. “I…I really think it’s more of a custody thing. That’s just my speculation.”

Naoya lets out a small, amused hum, twirling the golf club between his fingers before planting it back down again, leaning into it with casual grace. “Custody, huh?” he echoes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Interesting.”

His words are light, but Hana can feel the weight behind them. The air shifts again, the easygoing summer breeze suddenly feeling less refreshing and more suffocating.

She nods quickly, as if to justify herself. “Y-Yeah. I mean… it makes sense, doesn’t it? They had a kid young. There’s probably no formal agreement. She hid him for years. She would always vent to me about stuff like her rent, paying for food, and clothes for Koji. Stuff like that.”

Naoya nods thoughtfully, the club tapping lightly against the grass as he watches the horizon. But Hana knows he’s really paying close attention to her every word. “Hm. Sounds like she didn’t have much support,” he muses casually. “Even though she had family money. Or… used to, right?”

Hana shifts uncomfortably, casting her eyes down at her feet. She shouldn’t be saying anything. She knows it. And yet—

“She doesn’t really… talk to her family anymore,” she mutters. “Or, I guess, they don’t talk to her.”

Naoya finally turns fully toward her now, the sun catching in his sharp eyes. He smiles, soft and indulgent, but Hana can sense the calculation behind it. “She sounds like someone who’s good at burning bridges,” he says lightly, almost jokingly. “Even the ones she might need later.”

Hana shrinks a little under the remark, guilt coiling in her stomach. Still, she doesn’t correct him. Maybe because some bitter part of her agrees. Or because it feels easier than defending someone who left her behind.

“You said she hid the kid for years?” Naoya presses, like he’s just casually connecting dots. “Why do you think she finally told him?”

Hana hesitates, nervously twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt again. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “She didn’t tell me how exactly he found out, either. But maybe she needed help? I mean… being a single mom is expensive. Maybe she got desperate. Or maybe he found out and forced her hand. I don’t know.”

Naoya’s smile widens a fraction, so small it’s almost imperceptible. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Makes sense. Desperation’ll make people do funny things.” He straightens, brushing invisible dust off his tailored pants, the polished image of someone who already has everything he wants, or knows exactly how to get it.

Hana looks at him, feeling small and a little stupid under the weight of what she’s just admitted, but Naoya only chuckles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft. “You’re not betraying anyone. You’re just telling me what you already know.”

And Hana, desperately wanting to believe it, lets herself relax as Naoya pulls her closer, delivering a soft kiss to her cheek. “C’mon, let’s finish up here. We can get some lunch, hit up the mall, buy something pretty for you. You like that?”

And Hana nods, smiling shyly. “Yeah, I like that.”

“I don’t know if I trust your parents picking Koji up.” 

Satoru glances at you as he finds a parking spot, brows knitting before he reverses back. “Why not? You’ll be in the interview and I have to run some stuff back ahh the office. They said they’d do it.”

Nerves fill your stomach, anxious about the interview you have with Carlisle & Harlow. Wearing your most sophisticated, fitted black button-up with the same color slacks to go with it. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm yourself as you straighten the collar of your shirt. The sharp black fabric feels comforting against your skin, almost like armor, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in your chest. The weight of the interview looming over you is enough to make everything feel more intense. “I know you trust them, but I don’t think I’m ready to put Koji in their care. I don’t trust them, not after everything.” You glance out the window. “What if something happens and I’m not there? What if they treat him differently… like they treated me?” Your voice quivers slightly, betraying the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

He parks the car, turning to look at you. “Hey,” he gently speaks, gaining your attention. “I know it’s hard. You have every right not to trust them. Hell, sometimes I don’t. But I’ve talked with them, okay? And I promise you—I promise—that nothing bad will happen to Koji. I’ll protect him and you with all I can. And I’ll be damned if my parents have something to say about it.”

Your breath hitches slightly as you hold his gaze, his eyes a mixture of reassurance and determination. The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you can’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in your gut. “You say that now, but you’ve never been in my shoes,” you murmur, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t get to choose how they treated me. And if they treat him the same way, I… I can’t handle that. Not again. Not with Koji.”

Satoru sighs, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering between you and the parking lot outside. “I get it. I do. But you can’t shield him from everything. You’re not alone in this anymore.” He leans in, placing a hand over yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding. “You’ve been carrying this weight by yourself for too long. Let me help you carry it.”

You swallow hard, the uncertainty and fear bubbling up inside you. “It's just…it’s hard. Letting go, trusting people—especially them—it’s not easy for me.”

He nods, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I get it. You’ve had a lot of time to build walls around yourself. But this… this is different. Koji deserves a chance at family, at love. And that means we need to trust, even if it’s hard. Not just for us, but for him.”

You look at him again, his expression serious yet tender, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter. He’s not asking you to forget what happened or pretend everything’s okay. He’s just asking you to trust him.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you finally allow yourself to soften just a little. “But if anything goes wrong, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

Satoru’s smile is small but full of warmth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve got your back. Always.” He leans in, as if about to press a kiss to your forehead before you turn to the door. 

You awkwardly clear your throat, grab your purse, and ignore the urge to look back at his face. “Right. I—I’m going to go in now. Good luck at work. Your parents have my number, right? They’ll text us if anything happens?”

A hand scrubs over his neck, settling back in his seat. “Um…yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Great. I’ll take the bus back.”

“Are you su—”

“Thank you for driving me, bye now.”

You close the door before hearing what he has to say next. Forcibly brushing off this weird limbo you two are in, and instead, focusing on the now. This interview. Yourself. Your future. That’s what matters most. It’s a tall building situated within the nicer, more metropolitan area of Tokyo. One you’re still finding yourself getting used to. You don’t miss your shitty neighborhood, you won’t. But there’s still a small voice inside your mind that tells you this kind of environment, just living a city life, is not for you. Maybe one day, you can own a piece of property out in butt-fuck nowhere. Some cows, maybe chickens, and at least one chestnut horse. Ah, the thought is a nice one. If all goes well with this gig, that future may actually be a possibility. 

Entering the lobby, important-looking people pass by. Some on the phone, discussing whatever deals are on the line, others rushing about, seemingly in a hurry to get from one place to the next. It’s a little chaotic, if you’re being honest. But why wouldn’t it be? Everyone’s dressed to impress, you can tell by the pristine, dark fabric of one guy’s suit. There’s a receptionist desk further down; that’s where you head. Straightening up and dusting off the imaginary particles on your shoulder, you make your way over. A subtle confidence is what you try to exude, smiling politely at the younger woman seated behind the desk. “Hi, excuse me?”

“One moment, please.” She holds a single finger up, talking on the phone while simultaneously clicking away at something on her monitor. 

You nod quickly, stepping back just a bit to give her space, hands smoothing down your slacks as you glance around the lobby again—more a reflex than anything else. The walls are glass and concrete, modern and intimidating, and the clean, minimalist aesthetic makes you feel a little out of place no matter how well you dressed today. Still, you keep your chin up.

The receptionist finishes her call a moment later, setting the phone down with a practiced smile. “Hi there, sorry about that. Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” you reply, clearing your throat gently. “I’m here for an interview with Ms. Carlisle at eight-thirty.”

“Oh, Ms. Carlisle hasn’t come into the office yet.” The receptionist replies, head tilting. “Are you sure your interview with her was today?”

Your expression dampens slightly, hands fiddling. “Oh, um…yes, I’m sure. She said today.”

“Hmm, well that’s interesting.” Once again, the receptionist clicks and scrolls away on her monitor for a few seconds. You almost begin to think it’s a sign from the universe that it was all too good to be true, that maybe Evelyn even forgot she scheduled a meeting with you today in the first place. You’re about to lose all hope, but the girl speaks up again. “Well, you’re more than welcome to wait for her in her office. She’s up on the last floor. Once you’re out of the elevators, take a right, then another right, then a left, keep walking down, and you’ll see it. It’s not hard to miss.”

You thank her with a polite nod, trying to ignore the tightening in your stomach as you step toward the elevators. Maybe it was just a simple scheduling mix-up, or maybe this is what it’s like working in a place where everyone’s too busy to worry about being on time. Either way, you’re here now—and you’ll wait if you have to. You're not about to let something like this shake you. The elevator dings open with a soft chime, sleek and metallic inside, and you press the button for the top floor, which is the twenty-first. As the doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel—sharp collar, clean lines, confident-enough face—and you give yourself the smallest of nods. You can do this. 

The ride up is smooth and quiet, faced with the beautiful skyline of a bright Tokyo morning. When the doors finally slide open, you’re met with the hushed luxury of the executive floor. It’s quieter up here—less of the bustling chaos from the lobby. The air feels cooler, more sterile, with plush carpeting and abstract art lining the walls. Probably the higher up you go, the more important the people are, and the more hushed it is. 

Following the receptionist’s directions, you navigate the hallway, counting your turns. Right. Another right. Then left. And just like she said, there it is—Carlisle etched on the frosted glass door in neat serif lettering. It’s large, imposing, and framed by dark wood with a gold handle that gleams faintly in the soft overhead lighting. You pause just before reaching for it, taking another deep breath to center yourself.

This interview could change everything. Not just your job. Not just your income. But your whole future.

You knock twice, then slowly push the door open.

No one is inside, as you expected, but it still felt respectful enough to knock. There’s a dark mahogany desk in the center, a reclining seat behind it, with two chairs on the opposite side. Two monitors with a landline and piles of paperwork stacked on top. To the right is a plush, black leather couch. The walls have some paintings, you could only assume cost way too much for such simplicity. Carefully, you walk inside, plopping down onto one of the two chairs. Hands folded in your lap as the silence envelopes you, head swivelling around as you continue to take in the atmosphere. It’s not too large of an office, but still bigger than your normal supervisor's one. You almost question how similar this one looks to someone like Satoru’s, someone who has a high ranking in such a noteworthy company. Not that you’ve ever seen his. 

Boredom begins to strike as you wait for her to arrive. You check your watch. 8:36. If there’s one thing you hate most in your life, it’s late people. Your finger taps against your knuckles, your foot against the floor as time ticks. When you glance at Evelyn’s desk again, you notice that she has a framed picture. It’s the only thing on her mess of a desk that seems like a personal artifact. You lean closer in your seat, head tilting to the side and just barely nudging the frame so you can have a better look.

One more month until we meet you, Baby Jeanie. 

Evelyn is wearing a white dress, with a very obvious bump beneath it. Beside her stands her late husband, Noah Harlow, his blonde hair reflecting the sunlight. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, and each of their hands is placed on top of the life they’ve created. Genuine smiles painted their faces. He’s wearing a clean, tan button-up, with light slacks to match. The day looks perfect, the picture beautifully representing what it must’ve felt like for the expecting couple. A small twist forms at your heart, lip curving down. 

“Three years today.”

You jolt with a gasp, quickly settling back in your seat, forcing your slouched position away. 

Evelyn’s voice is calm but laced with a grief you recognize immediately. Her heels click softly against the floor as she walks into the office, setting her bag down on the desk with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at the photo—she doesn’t have to. Her gaze is distant, almost unreadable, but you see the heaviness behind her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, flustered, guilt blooming in your chest as you sit up straighter, “I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just—”

She lifts a hand, gently waving it off. “It’s alright.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “I keep it there because I want people to see it. It reminds me why I do what I do.” A pause. “And who I’ve done it for.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. Your fingers nervously clutch the edge of your slacks.

Evelyn takes her seat behind the desk and leans back in her chair, studying you with sharp, blue, observant eyes that don’t quite match the soft sorrow of her earlier tone. She taps the edge of her keyboard before finally breaking the silence again. “You’re early. I like that.”

“I—I wasn’t sure about traffic,” you manage, forcing a small, professional smile. “Figured it’s better than being late.”

“Smart. And rare,” she replies, and though her tone is cool, there’s something vaguely warm beneath it. “Let’s not waste time, then.”

She flips open a leather-bound folder, scanning your resume briefly. You can feel the shift—how she seems to pull herself together quickly, brushing her personal grief behind some invisible barrier to focus on the task at hand. “You did bring your resume, correct?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” You nod, reaching down to pull a folder out of your purse. You open it and hand her a straight, white sheet of paper stapled together. “

She takes it, head tilting as she analyzes it quietly. She hums. “Quite a lengthy list of employment.”

“I’ve been working since I was barely a teenager,” you nod. 

Evelyn doesn’t look up at first, eyes scanning the page with the kind of thorough attention that makes your pulse tick faster in your throat. Her fingers rest at the corner of the paper, unmoving, like she’s weighing something much heavier than a resume. Finally, she speaks again.

“And not a single job lasted more than…ten months.” Her gaze lifts, sharp and assessing. “Why is that?”

You hesitate, the air suddenly feeling too thick in your lungs. There it is—that dreaded question. Not unexpected, but still difficult to explain in a way that doesn’t sound like you’re making excuses. You fold your hands in your lap, straighten your spine once more, and meet her eyes. “Most of them were out of necessity,” you say honestly. “Temporary work, short-term contracts, jobs I took to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t about building a career at the time. It was survival.”

There’s a pause. Evelyn leans back slightly, arms folding across her chest. She watches you in silence for a moment longer before her tone softens—just a fraction.

“And now?”

Your throat feels tight, but you manage to hold steady. “Now, I’m not just trying to survive anymore. I want something stable. I want something I can grow in, something that’s mine. For me. And for my son. I want us both to have security.”

Evelyn’s brow twitches faintly at the mention of your child, though she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sets your resume down and steeples her fingers. The grief you saw earlier remains behind her eyes, like a shadow, but something shifts. “You’re not the most qualified person on paper,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve made decisions from instinct before—and they’ve served me well.”

Another pause.

“Tell me why I should take that chance on you.”

You falter a bit, and a part of you almost blurts out, Well, you came up to me at my job, you sought me out, but you hold it back. “Well, I’m a very…hard worker. I’m passionate, and I’m very dependable. I believe that I have a lot of years' worth of experience, and  I can be a great addition to this company. I’ve never been a personal secretary before, but I’m diligent, I’m…great at conflict management. And I get my work done.”

“You and…many other people, Y/N.” She murmurs, leaning back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other. “Give me more. What makes you stand out?”

God, you hate questions like these. You rack your brain for a bit, coming up with the most generic answer. “I’m a very determined person. I’m adaptable.”

“And that makes you, what?”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. Her tone isn’t cruel, but it is pointed, like she’s testing you, pushing to see if there’s anything beyond the surface. And maybe she has every right to. This is the kind of job people fight for, the kind you don’t just walk into from a string of restaurant gigs and hourly jobs. But you’ve fought too hard to shrink now. So, you breathe in, let your shoulders settle, and drop the polite, rehearsed version of yourself.

“It makes me someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard,” you say, voice calmer now, more grounded. “Someone who keeps showing up. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’ve got every reason to quit. I’ve worked through grief, through debt, through raising a child by myself. And I still found a way to keep going. I may not have a polished resume, and I might not look perfect on paper, but I learn fast, and I don’t need hand-holding. You won’t have to babysit me. I can take a hit and keep moving.”

Your voice quiets, but your gaze stays steady on hers.

“I know what it means to build from nothing. And I’m not afraid to start again, even here.”

The silence that follows is thicker this time, but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Evelyn studies you with a different kind of stillness now. Not dismissive. Not uninterested. Just…watching. Measuring. Then, she speaks. “How old is your child?”

“He’s five now.”

“Going to school?”

“He is.”

Evelyn nods slowly, fingers steepled beneath her chin as she regards you with something unreadable—less like an employer sizing up a candidate, and more like a woman pulling apart a story that hits too close to home. “You’ll have to leave early sometimes. Sick days. School closures. Emergencies.” Her voice is even, neutral.

You nod. “I try to plan for those things ahead of time. But yes, sometimes they’re unavoidable.”

Another beat of silence. Then, she leans back slightly, eyes narrowing, but not unkindly, with intent. “Being a personal secretary isn’t just phones and calendars. It’s long hours. Emotional labor. You’ll be expected to run interference, manage people’s moods, anticipate needs before they’re spoken. My assistant before you quit because the pressure bled into her marriage.”

She lets that sink in. Not as a threat, but as a truth.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just telling you—you’ll be expected to carry a lot. Are you ready for that, Y/N? Not just for the job. But for what it takes from you?”

Your lips purse, fingers curling into your palms. Every question from her feels like a test. A reminder that this job, although presented to you, is not one for the weak. Well, luckily for you, you’re not married like the last girl. And, unluckily for Eveleyn, she may wish you were. 

You huff a small breath through your nostrils before speaking with conviction. “I’m ready. I’ve made the necessary steps to get to where I am for my son and for me. I can push and push, and I can take just as much. I…I have more to fight for now.”

Evelyn’s eyes flicker slightly, just a subtle change in the way she regards you, but it’s enough to let you know she heard you. She shifts in her seat, elbows resting on the arms of her chair, hands folding neatly in her lap. There’s a glimmer of something—approval or maybe just curiosity—as she leans forward just enough to study you. “I see,” she murmurs. Her voice is softer now, less challenging. “You’re driven. That’s clear.”

You meet her gaze, holding it steady, feeling the weight of her scrutiny but refusing to flinch. This interview, this moment, it feels like one more battle you’ve got to win, and you’re determined to prove that you're capable of fighting for what you want, even if it’s a battle she doesn't yet fully understand. She taps her pen lightly against her desk, contemplating. “Alright, Y/N. I’ll be honest. I’ve had my doubts about taking on someone with little experience in this specific role. But you’ve shown me something I wasn’t expecting. I’ll need to run this by my team, but you’ll hear back from me soon. If all goes well, I’ll put you through a trial month. That’s all I can promise for now.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. The worst of it is over. Or so you hope. “Thank you,” you say, standing up with a calmness you didn’t feel five minutes ago. You offer her a polite smile. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Evelyn gives you a small nod, standing as well. “Good luck, Y/N. I think you’ll need it.”

As you leave the office, your heart is still racing, but now it’s not from nerves. It’s from knowing you’ve fought for this. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough. A smile makes its way onto your face. That wasn’t half bad and not nearly as long as you thought it would be. Of course, you would’ve loved to have been hired on the spot, but it makes sense that she needs to consult first. 

Still, it wasn’t rejection. 

You lightly chuckle, turning one of the first corners, when suddenly, you collide with someone. You gasp, stumbling back a little before catching your footing. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry. That was an accident.” 

Locking eyes with the person you’ve just come into contact with, you see it’s an older man. His grey hair is styled sleekly back, with hints of crows feet around the outer edges of his hazel eyes. He’s dressed like every other man here. Nice, fancy, pristine. He dusts off his right shoulder, straightening his blazer out. “Don’t worry, simple mistake.” His voice is clean and smooth, slightly rough at the edges, which makes it obvious he was or still is a smoker.

You quickly step back, feeling a slight wave of embarrassment. The man’s eyes soften as he gives a short hum. “It happens.” He gestures to the hallway behind him with a brief nod. You step aside, offering another apology. His eyes just very briefly scan you up and down, lingering on a couple of features of your face, specifically your nose and eyebrows, before transferring quickly to your ears. 

“Have a nice day,” you mutter awkwardly. 

“Mhm,” is all he says before walking past you. Once he’s gone, your body feels lighter, as if this stranger’s presence made you all wacky from the inside. You cast a small look around the corner, making it just in time to notice Evelyn’s door closing with a click.

You swallow, shaking off the lingering feeling that man left behind. His presence, the way his eyes skimmed over you, there was something strange about it, but you can’t put your finger on what. You chalk it up to nerves from the interview and move on. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, right? Besides, it’s Evelyn’s opinion that matters now. You keep walking, feeling that mix of relief and uncertainty creeping back into your chest. It’s a good thing the interview went well, but the weight of waiting for a callback still lingers heavily. As you approach the elevator, you check your phone, noticing a message from Satoru.

Satoru: "How’d it go?"

You smile a little, despite everything. You type out a quick reply:

You: "Better than I expected. No decision yet, but I didn’t bomb it."

You hit send, stepping into the elevator, your mind still buzzing. A moment later, the door closes, and the hum of the elevator fills the silence. You rest against the metal wall, letting your thoughts wander back to the interview, to what could come next.

It could be the start of something bigger.

“My, this…neighborhood,” Akane comments, laced with disgust. Her face wrinkles slightly at the trash that leaks out of the garbage can, obviously not being taken care of, the sketchy-looking liquor stores that seem too close together, but must be an alcoholic’s dream. The car stops at the elementary school, she looks over at her husband. “Are you sure this is the boy’s school?”

“That’s what the damn GPS is telling me. That’s what Satoru said.” Yamato huffs, grabbing his phone, pointer finger jabbing at the bright screen, and pulling down the glasses onto the bridge of his nose. 

Akane sighs, straightening out her dress. 

“C’mon, Satoru said his class should have already been let out, let’s go find the room.” Yamato pushes his hair back, sighing as he gets out his Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Rounding the car to open the passenger door for his wife. They link hands and head toward the front doors of Koji’s school. 

“I hope we don’t get mugged,” Akane mutters under her breath. 

“Oh, quiet. We’re only here for the kid.” Yamato easily replies, eyes rolling. 

The inside of the school isn’t much better. The walls are faded, bulletin boards cluttered with crumpled flyers, hand-drawn posters, and outdated announcements. The linoleum under their feet squeaks with every step, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Akane grimaces as a child runs past them with a juice-stained shirt, followed by another with untied shoes and an uncovered sneeze.

“This place smells like glue and poverty,” she mutters, pulling her handbag closer to her side.

Yamato doesn’t respond this time. He’s focused on the numbers above each door, squinting until they finally stop in front of Room 2B. Children’s laughter and the low hum of a teacher’s voice filter through the door. Akane frowns, eyes narrowing at the chipped paint on the doorframe.

Yamato raises his hand to knock, hesitates for a moment, and then glances at his wife. “Just��behave, alright?”

“I always do,” Akane answers with a sugary edge, smoothing her hair back and lifting her chin as he knocks.

The noise inside dips for a second as a voice— the teacher’s—calls out, “Come in!”

And just like that, the Gojo parents step into a room that’s far too small, far too loud, and far too beneath them—only, they’re not here for any of that.

They’re here for Koji.

Yamato presents a small smile. “Hello, we’re here for our…” grandson? Should he say grandson? Technically, he is, but it doesn’t really feel that way. “Koji. We’re his grandparents.”

“Ah! Right!” The teacher, an older lady with brown hair and a stained apron, nods. “His mother said he would be getting picked up by you two.” She turns her head over her shoulder, and the other kids who haven’t been picked up by their parents yet either. “Koji! Your grandparents are here, come get your backpack and jacket.”

Koji looks up from the little table where he’s been coloring with a few other kids. Crayons clatter as he quickly slides out of his chair, eyes wide and uncertain as he stares at the unfamiliar older couple standing at the door. He doesn’t move right away. His teacher encourages him with a soft pat on the back. “It’s okay, sweetie, go on.”

He walks slowly, dragging his feet just a little as he clutches his drawing in one hand. When he reaches them, he stops just a few feet away, looking up. His face is unreadable—neither shy nor excited, just…quiet. Observing. His blue eyes flick from Yamato’s trimmed goatee to Akane’s sharp heels.

A slightly awkward affair as the three leave the room, his teacher ensuring to tell Yamato to tell Koji’s mother about his homework left in his backpack. He nods, hand hesitantly hovering above the boy’s small shoulder as they walk back down the hallway. Yamato and Akane share a knowing, quiet glance. 

Once they get outside, Akane clears her throat, looking down at Koji. “Koji, do you remember us?”

“Um…only a little bit,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck as he mentally recounts the day he first saw the two who call themselves his grandparents. Luckily, you and Satoru were with him that day, but now he’s all alone. 

They get to the car, with Yamato opening the backseat. Koji’s eyes widened slightly in awe at the sleek, black car presented in front of him. “Papa’s car is cool too…” he offhandedly comments. 

Akane arches a brow. “I’m sure it is,” she replies curtly, helping him into the car with a practiced grace that still feels stiff, unfamiliar. Koji slides into his booster seat, hands lightly grazing the armrest before clutching his backpack in his lap. Yamato shuts the door and exchanges another glance with his wife before circling back to the driver’s side. The moment he starts the engine, the car hums to life with silent power, and for a while, none of them speak.

Koji, ever perceptive, clutches his drawing a little tighter.

Akane breaks the silence first. “So… what were you drawing back there?”

Koji hesitates. “Me and Mama. At the park.”

“Hmm,” she hums, gaze forward. “No Papa?”

Koji’s lips press together. “He wasn’t there that day.”

Yamato’s knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel. Akane doesn’t respond, but the weight of her silence is as cutting as her tone. After a few more seconds, Yamato clears his throat, glancing at Koji through the rearview mirror. “We were thinking we could take you out for something to eat. Anywhere you like.”

Koji blinks. “Like… McDonald’s?”

Akane’s lips curl into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “If that’s what you want.”

“Can I get a toy?” Koji asks, almost hopefully now.

“Yes,” Yamato answers, firm but not unkind. “You can get whatever you want.”

There’s a beat of calm. Then, very softly, Koji says, “Mama doesn’t have a car like this.”

Yamato exhales quietly. “I know.”

Akane folds her hands in her lap, casting a sideways glance out the window. “That’s why we’re here.”

The ride to McDonald’s isn’t as painfully quiet. Yamato turns the radio on, volume in the middle. Koji swings his legs back and forth, looking out the tinted window as the streets blur past him. His head tilts when they pass the McDonald’s. “We missed McDonald’s,” he says, looking at the older couple with a confused gaze. 

Yamato meets his eyes through the rear-view mirror momentarily. “There’s another McDonald’s closer to our house.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to your house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why not my house?”

God, he forgot just how questioning children are. Akane answers this time. “Because your mother and father will meet us there later. Until then, you’ll stay at our house.”

Koji is silent for a minute, processing the information. He looks down at his drawing, hands smoothing out the paper. “Is your house big?” He questions. 

Akane gives a soft hum, like she’s debating how much to say. “Yes. It’s quite big. There’s a garden and a fountain in the front. We have a piano, too.”

“A piano?” Koji repeats, eyes lighting up just a bit as he looks up from his drawing. “Do you play it?”

“I used to,” she replies, her voice a little softer now. “Maybe I’ll show you.”

Yamato glances at her, surprised by the gentle tone, but doesn’t comment. He switches lanes with ease, and they pass through the quiet, wealthier side of the city. The roads get smoother. Cleaner. Koji notices the change, too.

“Are there kids in your neighborhood?”

“A few,” Yamato answers. “Most are older, though. Teenagers.”

“Oh.” Koji pauses again, then looks back out the window. “Mama says big houses get quiet.”

Akane’s lips press together tightly. “That’s true. But sometimes quiet can be peaceful.”

Koji doesn’t respond. He just tucks his drawing back into his backpack and rests his chin in his hand, blinking slowly at the soft-spoken world outside the window—one that doesn’t look like his. One that doesn’t feel like his. 

Yamato parks in the McDonald’s parking lot, unbuckling. Akane and Koji do the same, waiting for the man to open their doors. Koji hops out as Akane does. Koji, ever excited, begins to briskly walk to the front doors of his favorite place. Yamato and Akane’s eyes widen, quickly following. 

Akane’s hand awkwardly juts out, as if she’s about to grab his hand, before stopping. She instead clears her throat. “Walk slower, now.”

Koji slows down, glancing up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, scuffing his shoes against the concrete as he adjusts his pace. He waits beside her, though there’s a slight fidget in his steps. He’s not used to slowing down for anyone but his mom.

Inside, the McDonald’s smells like fries and melted cheese. A kid screams with glee somewhere near the play area, and Koji visibly relaxes at the familiar chaos. Yamato leads them to the counter, where a bored-looking teenager takes their order. Koji clutches the edge of the counter, peering up as he declares confidently, “I want a Happy Meal. With the dinosaur toy. And apple slices, not fries. And orange soda!”

Yamato raises a brow but doesn’t argue. “Happy Meal. Dinosaur toy. Apple slices. Orange soda,” he repeats to the cashier, who nods with a shrug.

Akane watches Koji from the side, eyes tracing how easily he fits here—how his energy might be too big for their cold, cavernous home. She adjusts the pearl bracelet on her wrist, a little unsettled. 

Once they get the food, they sit at a clean booth near the window. Yamato and Akane both sit across from Koji. Koji munches on his food contentedly, his legs swinging again. He pulls the toy from the box, a green triceratops, and sets it beside his apple slices. “He looks mad,” he says, turning it toward them.

Yamato checks his watch. “Maybe he doesn’t like apple slices.”

Koji giggles slightly at the dry humor of his grandfather. Yamato clears his throat, looking up and leaning back in the booth. The older couple watch in quietness as Koji happily devours his food, occasionally stopping to move his toy dinosaur and mimic a small roar. 

It’s strange for them. They’re grandparents, and yet they know close to nothing about this boy. All that they do is he’s a carbon copy of their son, but his mannerisms closely match yours. 

Akane finds herself watching Koji more than she eats. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, just like you do when you’re distracted. His laughter comes in bursts, quick and bright, like a firecracker going off in a still room. And when he talks about his toy, he looks up at them with expectant eyes, seeking some kind of shared interest neither of them really knows how to give yet.

Yamato studies him too, arms crossed now, food half-finished. The boy’s smart. He doesn’t fidget aimlessly; he thinks before he speaks. He absorbs everything. Just like Satoru did. Maybe more.

Koji finishes his apple slices, downs the rest of his orange soda, and then sits back and smiles at them. “Do you have toys at your house?”

“No,” Akane answers honestly. “But we can get some.”

“Cool,” he says, simple and trusting. “Papa gets me a lot of toys.”

Akane hums lowly. “Do you like your toys?”

“I do!” He chews on his last chicken nugget. 

“What’s your favorite toy?” She asks, arms on the table as she leans forward. 

Koji doesn’t answer right away. He swallows his food, then looks up at her with that same wide-eyed honesty he always has when asked something serious. His fingers toy with the edge of the Happy Meal box. “I like my robot dog,” he finally says. “Papa gave it to me when I was sick. He said it could bark and dance, but it only spins in circles now. I think I broke it.” He pauses, thoughtful. “But I still like it.”

Akane tilts her head slightly, a quiet softness tugging at her features. “Even though it doesn’t work right?”

Koji shrugs. “Yeah. Because Papa said it’s mine. So it’s special.”

She studies him—how simple his logic is. How unwavering his sense of loyalty already seems to be. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the edge of the table. “I see,” she murmurs. “That makes sense.”

Yamato glances at her, then down at his phone.

Koji sits up straighter. “Do you have toys from when you were little?”

Akane chuckles under her breath, caught off guard. “Not anymore. I didn’t keep many things.”

“Why not?”

She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “I guess I didn’t think I’d need them.”

Koji stares at her for a second, then looks at his dinosaur toy. “You can have this one if you want,” he offers, sliding it across the table toward her. “So you have a toy again.”

Akane freezes.

Even Yamato lifts his eyes from his phone, blinking in surprise.

“O-oh, well, um—” she clears her throat, hesitantly taking the toy in her hand. “Well…that’s very…nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Mama says sharing is caring.” He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Akane’s eyebrow lifts. Seems you’ve taught your boy some good manners. At least. 

She turns the toy over in her hands, the little green dinosaur staring back at her with its molded plastic scowl. Something in her expression softens further, an unspoken crack in her perfectly composed exterior. It’s clear she hasn’t been offered something so small yet so sincere in a very long time.

“Well,” she says carefully, “I’ll take very good care of him.”

Koji beams, nodding. “Good. He doesn’t like being alone.”

Akane offers a small, almost reluctant smile. “Neither do I.”

Yamato watches quietly, lips pressed together, a crease forming between his brows—not because of disapproval, but something closer to discomfort. Like watching something unfamiliar begin to unfold in front of him. Just then, Koji reaches for his drink, slurping the last of his orange soda loudly. He sighs, satisfied, then stretches his arms out wide. “When are Mama and Papa coming?”

Akane and Yamato share a quick look. She reaches for her clutch, already checking her phone. 

“They’ll meet us back at the house later,” Yamato says, standing up slowly. “Let’s get going before traffic gets bad.”

Koji jumps to his feet with a little bounce. “Okay!”

Akane hesitates just a moment longer, placing the dinosaur into her purse beside her wallet and keys, treating it more carefully than she expected she would.

The entire bus ride to your ex’s parents’ house was spent in utter anxiety. You fiddle with your hands, foot tapping, and looking out the window. You haven’t seen them since that one day a couple of months back. You wish things were just easy enough so that you could have at least a semblance of a relationship with them. Especially if this co-parenting works out, it’s going to be inevitable you’ll be seeing them. You sigh, head resting back against your seat, eyes closing. 

.

.

.

.

“Satoru not bringing you food anymore?”

You gasp and jolt, whirling around quickly. The kitchen light flips on, caught right in the act of stealing a couple of pastries from the pantry, as well as a carton of orange juice. 

Akane stands in a nightgown, arms crossed, with a strong expression. Her eyes move up and down your figure, scoffing audibly. Her chin tilts up, silently commanding you to explain yourself. 

You swallow the current food in your mouth, wiping it with your hand. “I…um…I—well, I can explain.”

“Explain?” She steps forward. “Explain why my son’s good-for-nothing girlfriend has not only been staying in our guesthouse, but stealing our food? Go on, then. Explain.”

Her belittling tone makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear. God damn it, Satoru. Where the hell are you?! “I…um…there’s—there’s just some stuff going on at home. Satoru said I could stay here until things clear up.”

“And he didn’t even bother to tell me or his father.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to over—”

“Why are you here?”

“I—I needed a place to stay. I’m sorry. I won’t be here for long.”

Akane stares at you for a long, unbearable second. Her jaw clenches. You can tell she’s holding back something sharp. Maybe it’s restraint, or maybe it’s just another judgment she wants to hurl your way. “I should’ve known,” she says quietly. “Satoru always did have a soft spot for broken things.”

That one stings more than you’d like to admit. Your throat tightens. You look down, ashamed, both hands still wrapped around the cold carton of juice. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” you whisper. “I just needed a couple weeks. That’s all.”

Akane stares you down in silence for what feels like a full minute. The ticking clock above the stove echoes between you, and your heart hammers louder with each passing second. Her eyes narrow, not with confusion, but calculation. “Let me guess,” she says finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “You got into a fight with your mother again. Or maybe Satoru ran his mouth and scared you off?”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then tell me. Because all I see is a girl too proud to ask for help and too stupid to leave when she should’ve.” Her arms drop, but her words are no less harsh. “You’ve been sneaking around this house like a rodent. Do you know how humiliating it is to find out from the housekeeper that someone’s been using the shower and leaving dishes in the sink?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You can feel your throat tighten.

Akane sighs—long, exhausted, and judgmental. “You girls think just because someone like Satoru gives you attention, you’ve made it. But you don’t know the first thing about surviving in this family.”

Your knuckles whiten around the orange juice. The ache in your chest is unbearable, but you force yourself to speak. “I didn’t ask to be here. Satoru said it wouldn’t be permanent. He’s helping me. And I’ve been trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

“You failed.” Her reply is quick and cutting. “Do you know how hard his father and I work to keep his name clean? To keep distractions away while he was studying, preparing to inherit everything? And now look at him—sneaking you in like a dirty secret.”

The word “distraction” lingers in the air like poison. You blink rapidly, biting your tongue until you taste metal. “I’m not trying to ruin his life.”

Akane steps closer now. She isn’t yelling. She doesn’t need to. “Then leave before you do.”

Akane snatches the food and juice from your arms, giving you a brief jut of her chin. “Go back into the guesthouse. I’m not dealing with you anymore tonight.”

You blink, holding back tears. Wordlessly, you bite your lip, turn on your heel, and exit through the back door into the cool night air. Tears sting your eyes as you enter the guesthouse, closing the door with a shut before making your way to the bed. 

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, still in the dark, clutching the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. The burn in your throat won’t ease, no matter how hard you swallow. You press your palms to your eyes, trying not to let the sob crawl out of you.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know.

You repeat this tiny mantra to yourself, willing your brain not to go into overdrive for what will be the millionth time this week. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru promised. He said they wouldn’t even have to know you were here. Just a few weeks, just until you guys figured out what to do, until you started feeling better, until you could afford that studio apartment in Setagaya. But it’s already been four nights since you found out, and you’re still waking up at three in the morning, stomach twisted in knots, half from nausea and half from sorrow. 

And he still hasn’t answered your texts. 

.

.

.

.

You stir awake from your small nap as the bus gets to your stop, rubbing your eyes and getting off. His parents’ place shouldn’t be too far from here, if memory serves you right. You sigh and begin walking, just trying to think about being able to see your little boy in a little bit, not come face to face with them. 

You hug your coat tighter around you as you walk, the cool afternoon air nipping at your cheeks. The streets are too clean here. Too quiet. You hate how familiar it still feels, the ivy-lined walls, the sharp turns of the hedges, the cold elegance of it all. You used to think it was beautiful. Now it just feels heavy.

Your feet move on instinct, carrying you past the old stone wall you remember scraping your knees on one time, the bakery where Satoru used to buy you those strawberry mochi on Fridays. Everything is the same, but so different. 

You pause as you get to the intercom at the gate surrounding the Gojo Estate. Pressing the button. A small buzz sounds out, a man’s voice you recognize coming in. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Y/N.”

There’s a tiny silence before you hear another buzz, the wide gates slowly opening. Taking a deep breath, you start up the long driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat. Eyes focused on the two white grand doors. Once you get there, the doors open, revealing Yamato. 

You purse your lips awkwardly. “Um…hi.”

He nods briefly before stepping aside. The moment you enter, a wave of nostalgia washes over your entire being. You force yourself not to book it out of there. 

“Satoru said he’d be here in twenty minutes,” Yamato utters.

You nod, looking around. “And Koji?”

“Come,” he motions with his hand, turning to walk down the hallway towards the large living space. You follow a few steps behind, passing by a few family memorabilia on the way. You stop when he does. You blink, head tilting slightly. 

In front of you, your son and Satoru’s mother with their backs turned to you. They sit on the seat of the piano.

The scene before you feels surreal, like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you, yet it does. Koji, perched on the piano bench, his tiny fingers brushing over the ivory keys, a look of intense concentration on his face. And Akane, beside him, her back straight and her hands poised delicately over the keys as she guides him. The quiet, peaceful moment is almost too perfect.

“She’s been teaching him for the last hour, he’s very curious.” Yamato comments, arms crossing. He side-glances at you, noticing your quietness. 

“Oh, well…that’s good. He’s never seen one in person before,” you mumble, awkwardly shifting on your feet. You can faintly hear Akane mutter a direction to your son, followed by his nod. Your stomach turns, unsure of how to feel about all this. “He’s been behaving?” You decide to ask. 

Yamato nods, meeting your eyes. “Quite so.” He says nothing for a few more seconds before sighing and angling his body towards you. “Look, this is new for all of us. I didn’t expect him to be so open towards us.”

“Because I taught him to be kind to everyone,” you cooly reply, looking up at him. “No matter what.”

Yamato gets the silent message, jaw ticking just barely. “I know you may have resentment towards us, but we’re not your enemy,” he finishes, voice steady, but laced with something heavier.

You blink, swallowing thickly as your fingers curl inside your pockets. Enemy. You weren’t expecting that word, but maybe it fits more than you’d like to admit. Your silence stretches too long, and you know he’s waiting for you to snap, to throw all your pent-up frustration in his face.

But you don’t. Instead, you let out a small exhale, glancing back at Koji and Akane. “I don’t resent anyone,” you say, voice quiet. “I just don’t forget.”

Yamato says nothing, but the pause between you sharpens. Then he gives a small nod, almost as if conceding to something unspoken.

You walk past him.

As your feet carry you toward the piano room, Koji glances over his shoulder again. “Mama!” he beams, hopping off the bench and running into your arms. 

You catch him easily, hugging him tight, letting his little arms wrap around your neck like ivy. “Hey, baby,” you murmur into his hair, inhaling the warm scent of shampoo and sunshine. When you lift your gaze again, Akane is standing. Her expression is cool and composed as always, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She doesn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes says enough.

She sees you. 

“Thank you for teaching him,” you offer, voice strained but civil.

Akane tilts her head slightly. “He’s a fast learner,” she replies. “Takes after his father.”

You don’t comment on that, resisting the urge to say his mother, too. 

“Would you like to hear what he’s learned?” she adds, tone perfectly poised.

You blink in surprise. For a moment, you wonder if this is some sort of trap, but Koji pulls back, eyes shining with excitement. “Can I show her, Grandma?”

Akane gives a small nod. “Of course.”

He runs back to the piano. You follow more slowly, sitting beside him this time. Your eyes flicker to Akane. She doesn’t sit, but she watches, hands folded, body rigid in that ever-disapproving way. Or maybe that’s just what she’s forever used to. 

And still, as Koji presses the keys with tiny, proud fingers, all you can do is wonder:

Is this her trying?

Or is this just her performance?

You never know with these people. 

Koji plays a small, four-key symphony. You smile softly, watching his tiny fingers move around the white keys before looking up at you with an expectant smile. “Oh, you’re so good. That sounded so wonderful,” you kiss his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to bring him into your side.

He giggles, kissing your cheek back. “Grandma said I’m a puh—poo—umm…a pr—”

“Prodigy,” Akane finishes for him.

Koji nods quickly. “Yeah! That! A prodigy!”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch at the corners, though you keep your tone even. “Is that so?”

Akane finally moves, just enough to step closer. “I wouldn’t say it lightly,” she murmurs. “He has an ear for rhythm. Muscle memory. Coordination. His age group typically struggles with that.”

You glance at her sideways. “He’s always been observant. Picks up things quickly.”

Akane nods once. “Yes. He’s sharp.”

There’s something there—a flicker of approval, rare and unfamiliar. It lands oddly. Not unwelcome, but not quite comforting either. Still, it lingers longer than you expect. And for the first time since arriving, her words feel… not like a dismissal. Not like judgment. More like an assessment.

You exhale slowly. “Well… as long as he’s enjoying it.”

Koji beams between you both. “I wanna be really good. Like the people on Papa’s phone!”

You blink. “What people?”

“He showed me a video of a man playing piano with his eyes closed. Really fast!” Koji’s eyes go wide. “I wanna do that.”

“Sounds ambitious,” you murmur, brushing his hair back gently.

“It’s possible,” Akane says, arms crossing. “With discipline and the right environment.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “He’s five.”

Akane’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So was Satoru when he started.”

The comparison between Koji and Satoru is one you expected, but that doesn’t make you any less frustrated. You look back at Koji, his joy too pure, too focused, to let the weight of that conversation reach him. He starts playing again, a slower, clumsier version of the earlier song, tongue poking out in concentration. “Well, he’s not Satoru. He’s Koji.”

“He can still learn how Satoru did.”

“Or he can learn what he wants, when he wants. And if I allow it,” you calmly reply, standing up from the bench and taking your son into your arms. He’s already growing big enough to the point where picking him up hurts your back even more. However, you still want to cherish whatever strands of dependency you can with your son, even if that means suffering a backache.

Akane’s lips press into a thin line, not quite disapproving—but not agreeing either. You can see the tension in her posture, in the way her hands shift slightly as if she wants to say more but is holding back. “He’s yours,” she finally says. “That much is clear.”

You hold Koji tighter. “He always has been.”

Yamato clears his throat, hoping to die down the growing tension as he stands beside his wife. “Why don’t you two wait for Satoru in the dining room?”

You don’t need to be told twice, turning on your heel and walking out of the room, practically feeling their eyes burn holes in the back of your head. Once you’re gone, Akane sighs heavily, foot tapping against the ground. “That girl hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not in the mood to break up a fight right now, Akane.”

“I’m not fighting,” she snaps, glaring up at Yamato. “I’m observing. Simply. It’s not my fault she dislikes us.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does or does not, I don’t care enough to worry about that. But at least try to act civil in the presence of a child, yes?” Yamato asks in exasperation, eyebrow lifting. 

She scoffs. “I am acting civil. Do you see me raising my voice and throwing a tantrum?”

“No, but it’s your tone.”

“And how is my tone?”

“Jesus Christ, just be nice for one goddamn minute. I’m too old for this crap,” Yamato huffs deeply, hand running through his hair. His lips are set into a creased frown, and he waves his hand up. “Just try to make her feel somewhat comfortable, okay. Got it?” 

Akane opens her mouth. “But she—”

“I said, got it?” He asks again, giving his wife a look she’s familiar with. One that says he won’t tolerate her disobedience any longer.

Akane’s jaw tightens at the silent command, but she doesn’t argue this time. She just presses her lips together, gaze flicking toward the doorway you disappeared through. “…Got it,” she says eventually, her voice clipped.

Yamato sighs through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders just slightly. He doesn’t say anything else as he steps out, leaving his wife behind in the piano room. She lingers for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the bench where Koji had been sitting—small hands, wide eyes, laughter like Satoru’s when he was little. She swallows something bitter before turning on her heel and following after her husband.

In the dining room, you sit Koji down on the edge of one of the long chairs, pulling his little hoodie off his head and smoothing his hair. He swings his feet as he sits, talking excitedly about the keys, the sounds, how Akane let him press the pedal even though he “wasn’t supposed to.” You smile and nod in all the right places, but your mind is elsewhere, your eyes flicking to the large windows, the too-white walls, the marble floors. It’s like being dropped into someone else’s memory.

You hear their footsteps before you see them. Yamato enters first, his face unreadable as always, though there’s a tiredness behind his eyes. Akane follows after, her posture still regal, but her expression more composed. Less… cutting.

She doesn’t look at you as she sits on the opposite side of the table.

Yamato clears his throat and glances between you both. “Would either of you like tea while we wait?”

“I’m okay,” you mutter.

“Um…juice?” he asks Koji, his voice a tad bit gentler.

“Apple?” Koji grins.

Yamato nods. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the side kitchen, silence settles between you and Akane again. You keep your attention on Koji, who starts humming some made-up song to himself. 

Then, after a beat, Akane speaks.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you,” she says, tone low and careful, like each word has been weighed a dozen times before being spoken. “I only meant to point out potential.”

You glance at her. Her gaze is steady.

“He’s your son,” she says. “But he’s Satoru’s, too. You can’t expect the world not to notice what’s in his blood.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “I don’t mind the world noticing. I mind when people try to turn him into someone he’s not.”

She sighs. “All I did was suggest he has greater potential.”

Akane’s words hang between you like an unresolved chord. The flicker in her eye, curiosity, perhaps hope, maybe even defensiveness—doesn’t go unnoticed. 

You tilt your head. “I’m not against potential. I’m against projection.”

Her lips twitch at the corner. “You think I’m trying to mold him or something?”

“I think you don’t realize how easy it is to mistake admiration for control,” you say calmly. “And I’m not going to let him grow up thinking love has conditions attached to it.”

Akane stiffens slightly at that, her hands tightening over her lap. “You assume the worst in us.”

“No,” you reply softly. “I remember the worst. That’s not the same.”

Another pause. This time, it’s her gaze that flickers away, settling on the far end of the table where Koji now softly drums his fingers, looking between you and her. She decides not to push it; the longer the discussion grows, the more curious he might become. She looks up as Yamato holds out a juice box for Koji to take. 

Just as he does so, Satoru walks into the room. His two top buttons unbuttoned, eyes glancing between his mother and you, silently trying to determine the comfort level of the current situation. “Hey,” he says, coming over to stand beside you. A quick look at your expression says everything. 

“Papa!”

“Hey, buddy.” Satoru smiles, welcoming Koji into his arms, adjusting the small boy against his chest. He gives him a small kiss on the top of his head. “How was school?”

“Okay, I’m gonna miss my friends.” He admits, looking down with a small frown. 

“Aw, buddy. I’m sure you are, but you’ll make even more friends at your new school.”

Koji childishly sighs, arms wrapping around his father’s neck and putting his face into the crook of it. 

Satoru pats his back lightly, now focusing on his mother and you. His first question is directed towards you. “Everything good?”

You nod, though it’s a small, half-hearted gesture. “Peachy,” you murmur, not quite sarcastic, but not fully honest either.

His hand remains on Koji’s back, rubbing in slow, thoughtful circles. He glances at Akane, who has returned to her perfect stillness, eyes calmly watching the exchange as if it’s all part of a silent evaluation.

“She was just making observations,” you say before he can ask. “About Koji’s potential. About blood. About you at five.”

Satoru raises a brow, slowly lowering Koji to the chair beside him. “Mom,” he says, voice calm but edged, “We talked about this.”

Akane doesn’t flinch. “And I was careful. I said nothing out of line.”

“You never do,” he replies smoothly. But the look he gives her carries more weight than his tone. It’s the look of a son who’s lived too long parsing praise from performance. Yamato goes to his seat beside Akane with a grunt, muttering something about needing a stronger drink. You focus on Koji again, standing up to wipe juice from the side of his mouth as he slurps through the straw.

Then, Satoru shifts slightly closer to you, brushing your arm. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says low, for your ears only. “We can head out now, yeah?”

You glance at Koji, who’s swinging his legs, and you nod.

But it’s Akane who speaks next.

“You’re always leaving,” she says, tone bitter.

Satoru exhales through his nose. “And you’re always making it easy to.”

“The cooks will be making some shrimp tacos,” she says, standing as well. Her arms cross, looking between the two of you. “Maybe the boy can—”

“Koji is fine,” you cut in, fixing her with a firm gaze. “He’s a picky eater.”

Her lips purse tightly, restrained disapproval lurking behind her eyes. As if she is holding back a sharper comment.  Her posture doesn’t waver, but the chill in the room thickens.

“He’ll learn to adjust,” she finally says, looking at you. “Children do. Especially in families like ours.” 

Families like ours.

The words cling, sticky, and unpleasant. Satoru’s jaw tightens. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, the smallest urge to step in, to shield, to lash back. But instead, he smiles, tight, impersonal. “Koji isn’t some soldier in training, Mom.”

Akane lifts her chin. “And he shouldn’t be raised like a normal civilian, either.”

Yamato scoffs again, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

Satoru ignores his father, eyes still on his mother. “He’s five,” he says flatly. “He likes dinosaur nuggets and cartoons that scream too loudly. He doesn’t need to know what it means to be part of this family yet.”

“And he doesn’t need to,” you add on. 

She huffs dryly. “So you both plan on, what? Never allowing him to come over? To stay over?”

“Nobody is saying that, Mom.” Satoru exhales through his nostrils. “That is not at all what we said. Stop putting words in our mouths.”

“But that’s what I’m hearing.” Her voice rises, Koji just barely flinching in Satoru’s arms. You both notice, and your expression darkens. Satoru holds him closer, hand moving to his pearly white strands of hair to weave through in a calming manner. As if noticing the way she snapped, she blinks. For a moment, it looks like she might apologize. 

But neither of you cares enough to stay to hear it. 

“We’re leaving now.” You state, not leaving room for even more of whatever pathetic argument she might try to throw. Satoru and you turn, walking to the door. 

Yamato side glances at Akane. Her eyebrows are furrowed, biting hard on her lip. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks regretful. 

“Wait,” Koji says, looking over Satoru’s shoulder at the older couple. “Can I say bye to Grandma and Grandpa?” 

Satoru pauses at the door, one hand on the knob, the other under Koji’s legs as the boy leans back slightly in his arms. You glance at him, silent, weighing the moment. Akane straightens. Yamato says nothing.

“Of course you can,” Satoru says finally, setting Koji gently down. “Go ahead.”

Koji pads back into the room, small feet quiet against the polished floor. He stops in front of Akane first, looking up at her with hesitant eyes. She meets them, unsure for once. There’s a flicker of something unfamiliar—a tender softness she doesn’t wear often enough, one she hasn’t had to wear in years. 

“Bye, Grandma,” he says politely, giving a little wave.

Akane stares at him for a beat too long. Then slowly, she lowers herself to one knee, smoothing down her skirt. “Bye, Koji,” she replies, her voice quieter. “Thank you for coming.”

He smiles, just a little. She doesn’t hug him. But she brushes a piece of lint from his sleeve, like it’s the closest she knows how to get.

Next, he turns to Yamato. “Bye, Grandpa.”

Yamato grunts. “Be good, kid.”

Koji nods solemnly, then trots back to Satoru, who scoops him up with practiced ease. The tension hasn’t left the room, but the mood has shifted slightly, a tilt of something that might eventually become understanding. Or not. You don’t count on it.

Satoru looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

Akane nods once, lips pressed tight.

You don’t say anything else. The door closes behind you with a quiet click. As you walk down the hallway, Koji resting his head on Satoru’s shoulder, you murmur, “Thanks for not letting that go on any longer.”

He nods. “You looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing a glass at her.”

You snort, the sound small but real. “I still might.”

He holds open the front door. “Next time, we do neutral territory. Like a park. Or the moon.”

Koji yawns. “Only if there’s nuggets on the moon.”

You smile, despite it all. “We’ll make it happen.”

.

.

Akane sits back quietly in her seat, eyes laser-focused on the door you two just left. Her husband rubs his face. “I swear, if it’s not me one day, it’s you. And you said I’m driving him away.”

Akane doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze is still fixed on the door, her fingers tense around the armrest of the chair as though she’s trying to steady herself. Her jaw clenches, her silence a loud statement in the room. Yamato shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he leans back in his chair. “I’m getting too old for this.” He exhales heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, a look of both frustration and resignation settling on him. “Every damn time, Akane. Every time.”

Finally, Akane shifts slightly, her posture still stiff, but her eyes now narrowing as she shifts her eyes to her husband. “I don’t need your lectures right now, Yamato.”

“I’m not lecturing you, Akane,” he says, his voice sharp but tired. “I’m trying to understand where the hell we went wrong with him.”

Akane’s lips twist, the muscle in her cheek twitching slightly. “Where we went wrong? What about you? You think I don’t see how you’ve handled him? I’m not the only one pushing him away. He’s a grown man now, and he’s made his choices. Don’t you dare act like it’s all on me.”

Yamato’s eyes flick to the door again, his expression exasperated. “I don’t particularly favor either her or the boy, yes. But at least I can fake it in front of them. You preach how I’m ruining this family and how I care more about our legacy, but you’re the reason our son left our house angry, again.”

Akane’s gaze hardens as her husband’s words sink in, but she doesn’t respond right away. The silence between them thickens, heavy with the weight of old arguments and unspoken truths. Her fingers twitch tighter. Her posture remains rigid, every muscle seemingly on alert, and for a moment, Yamato wonders if she’s just waiting for the right moment to tear into him.

But instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, her voice quiet but icy when she finally speaks. “You want to talk about our son’s choices? Fine. But I’m not the one who hid behind his work, his pride, and a hundred excuses to avoid facing the truth.”

Yamato glares at her, the sharp edge of his frustration showing. “And what truth is that? That you’re right? That everything I’ve done to protect this family, to secure our future, was a mistake?”

Akane’s lips curl into a tight, bitter smile. “No. The truth is that we’ve been playing this game for too long, Yamato. For decades. You think Satoru’s leaving this house—this family—is his fault? You’ve built this perfect little empire on the backs of people like him, forcing them to believe they owe you everything. You taught him to put legacy before everything else, before loyalty, before love, before family.”

Her words cut deep, and Yamato feels his chest tighten. He leans forward, staring at his wife for a long, painful moment. “And what? You think you’ve been a perfect mother? You think you’ve done everything right? You think Satoru’s supposed to just bend to your every whim because you said so?” He scoffs bitterly. “You’ve been so busy trying to mold him into something he could never be. You haven’t seen him, Akane. Not really. You’re just as shitty as I am.”

Akane’s eyes flash with something, either anger or regret, or maybe both, but she’s quick to mask it with a calm veneer. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen exactly who he is, and that’s what I’m trying to protect. This family doesn’t have the luxury of softness, Yamato. Not when it comes to survival.”

Yamato laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. “Survival? Is that what you think this is? You think we’re still fighting to survive?”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the silence. It’s as if both are trying to hold on to the shards of a family that, in truth, has already splintered. Yamato’s gaze falls back on the door, his voice softer now, tinged with weariness. “I don’t know anymore, Akane. I don’t know what’s left of this family.” 

Akane’s expression softens, just slightly, but her voice remains firm. “Then maybe it’s time you figured it out.” She gets up and storms out the room. 

Yamato leans back in his chair, finally letting his eyes close for a moment, as though trying to block out the heavy weight of the conversation and everything that’s still left unsaid between them. 

God, can we just be a normal family for once?

.

.

.

.

“He barely even let me come over to his parents.” Himari scoffs, teeth gritting. She’s leaned over the middle console from the back, eyes narrowed into slits as she watches the car housing her used-to-be-boyfriend, his annoying wrench of an ex, and some useless kid drive off. 

Haruka sits beside her, wearing a white fur coat and dramatic, huge sunglasses that cover her eyes. She nudges beside Himari’s side, causing the other woman to grumble, in an attempt to get a look herself before the car makes a turn. Emi sits in the passenger seat, while Kenji is in the driver’s seat. The tint of their blacked-out vehicle keeping their presence obscured from outside view. 

Himari huffs again, tapping her fingers impatiently against the window. “I don’t get it. He just let her waltz in and take over, like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Haruka, ever the faux composed figure she is, brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs dramatically. “Men are always like that, darling. So quick to give away what doesn’t belong to them.”

Emi leans forward, her voice laced with mild amusement. “It’s not just about what belongs to him. It’s about what she thinks she deserves. And she clearly thinks she deserves him.”

“So, what now?” Himari crosses her arms, looking at her parents, then at Haruka. “I’m confused how this old hag will help.”

“Huh?! What did you—”

“She’s here to reclaim her daughter and drag her out the clutches of Satoru, Himari.” Emi sighs, looking over her shoulder at her daughter. “Just ignore her, she’s only an accessory.” 

“Excuse me!—”

“Approach her again,” Kenji finally speaks, effectively quieting down the car. He lights a cigar. “His father has been sending a representative to meet with me instead of himself. Seems cowards run in the family.”

“And then what? What if she doesn’t help?” Himari argues back. 

“I can help,” Haruka starts, lip curled into a scowl. “I’m not a useless brat like you. God, your generation knows nothing of respect.”

“I respect people who are on my same level. You? You’re like my pair of 2016 Versace pumps.” She flips her hair back. 

“Oh, you little—”

“I have reinforcements. When the time is right,” he lets out a puff of smoke. “They’ll start playing too.”

Himari groans loudly, running her hands through her hair. 

Haruka glares at Himari, her lips tightening into a practiced, poisonous smile. “I see Emi’s been raising her like a spoiled show dog. Pretty enough, but all bark, no bite.”

Emi chuckles softly, her tone dismissive. “And yet she’s the one he was with until your daughter came crawling out of the shadows, looking for scraps.”

“Crawling?” Haruka lets out a bitter laugh, the fur collar of her coat brushing her jaw as she turns to face Emi more fully. “Please. She doesn’t crawl—he has to have come looking. Don’t confuse desperation with effort. If anything, your Himari was the warm-up act.”

Himari scoffs, insulted, but Kenji speaks before she can bite back again. “Enough,” he says, cold and unamused. “This isn’t a fashion spat at a luncheon. This is about leverage. And right now, we don’t have it.”

The silence that follows is tense, thick. Himari bites the inside of her cheek, her nails tapping faster now.

“What do you want me to do then?” she asks, frustrated. “Just wait around while she plays happy family with him? With that child?”

Emi snorts. “If you had done your job properly the first time, we wouldn’t be here. But now…” she tilts her head, a calculating gleam lurking in her eyes, “we take advantage of what she loves.”

“And what’s that?” Himari asks, venom on her tongue.

Kenji answers instead, calm and deliberate. “Her son.”

That shuts everyone up.

The silence hangs for a second too long, and then Emi, always the tactful one, breaks it with a smooth, almost bored, “You don’t touch the boy. You use the boy. It’s simple, really.” Haruka’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Now that’s strategy.”

“I’ll accept as low as 730,000 yen,” Mei-Mei cooly states, leaning back leisurely in her chair. Legs crossed with a coy smile. “Last time, you low-balled me a bit. And it ended up causing quite a stir. I’m sure this will be even double that, so the lowest is 730,000.”

Across from the table sits an older man. Tapping his cane against the ground, his wrinkled face set into a constant grim expression. His eyes so dark, they look like hollows in his face. Bushy white brow just barely lifting as he hears her offer. 

“Quite the offer for an audio tape,” Gakuganji expresses grimly. 

Mei Mei’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it grows just slightly, thin, polished, dangerous. “It’s not just an audio tape,” she purrs. “It’s leverage. Undeniable. Unedited. The kind of thing that makes people resign overnight, or mysteriously disappear.” She leans forward, fingers lacing together on the table, her voice lowering but still smooth as silk. “730,000 is the price of convenience. Of silence. And I’m being generous.”

Gakuganji’s tapping stops. His cane stills, and his knuckles tighten around the curved handle. “You’re young,” he says, voice dry as gravel. “Too bold for your own good.”

“And you’re old,” she replies sweetly. “Too used to being feared to realize when someone’s already won.”

A long beat passes before Gakuganji chuckles under his breath, no humor in the sound. “You’ll learn the consequences eventually.”

Mei Mei’s eyes narrow, her tone still velvet. “I already have. That’s why I charge before I hand things over. And besides, you’ll learn too, won’t you? Considering I’ve been doing your dirty work for you for a few months now.”

“My hands are not dirty, yours are.”

“And so are my ears.” She easily adds. “Unfortunately for you, I haven’t been able to ear-hustle on much. Other people with higher bids have my attention more than you and your mysterious vendetta against the Gojo Group.”

“It’s not mysterious.”

“Then why them?”

Gakuganji’s eyes glint, though his expression remains carved from stone. “Because they’ve forgotten what it means to answer to someone.”

Mei Mei hums, unimpressed, brushing invisible lint from her lap. “You mean you.”

“I mean structure,” he grits out. “Power has rules. Lineage has purpose. And Satoru Gojo—” he leans in, voice dropping to a growl, “—spits on both. Just like his father before him. Just like his mother did in silence.”

She tilts her head, amused now. “So this is about old grudges? Bloodlines and bruised egos?”

He says nothing. Mei Mei lets out a light, airy laugh, reclining again. “Fascinating. And here I thought it was about money. Or maybe land. You’re boring when it’s personal, Gakuganji.”

His knuckles twitch again around the cane. “When it’s personal, Mei Mei, it’s permanent.”

She smiles again, cold and brilliant. “Then you’ll have to pay extra for permanence. I’m not cheap, and I don’t do charity for bitter old men.”

“This is a necessary execution. They believe they are worth more than everyone else. Especially Yamato’s devil spawn. He disrupts balance itself. Privileged, spoiled rotten, wealthy, and unfortunately…very smooth talking. Everyone bends to his will just because of his name.” Gakuganji gruffs out.

She lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Necessary and personal usually go hand in hand, old man. I just like to know who’s paying for what. There’s always something more beneath the price tag.”

His lips curl in distaste. “And there’s always someone like you, digging for the bones after the war.”

She smiles again, dazzling and cold. “Better than dying in it. So.” She taps her manicured nail against the table. “730,000. Or I hand the audio to someone with less of a vendetta and more imagination.”

Gakuganji’s eye twitches.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Mei Mei holds out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. Again.”

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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[ch0llies]

FOREVER NOW | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

You and Chris have been tied together by an invisible string ever since you met at 10. As you grew older, Chris became your safe place. He was always there, unknowingly shaping himself into the person you’d eventually fall in love with. By the time you were 18, you had become each other’s first everything- first kiss, first love, first promise that neither of you could ever belong to anyone else the way you belonged to each other. And now, standing in the bathroom with ten pregnancy tests lined up on the counter, that promise felt heavier than ever.

story warnings: fluff, smut, creampie, heavy breeding kink, pregnancy, established relationship, etc… if any of these topics upset you… don’t read!

word count: 6k

a/n: thank you so much for 1k followers!! i love you all so much!!

The rain taps gently against the window. Your shared apartment is dimly lit, warm, filled with the faint trace of Chris’s cologne- the kind of smell that feels like home, like safety.

Chris is beside you on the couch, one arm draped lazily over your legs, his other hand scrolling absentmindedly through his phone. The TV plays some old movie in the background, half-forgotten.

Your fingers trace small circles on his forearm, the soft fabric of his hoodie warmed by his skin. He hums in contentment, shifting just enough to glance at you.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” he asks, voice soft, familiar.

You smile, but your mind is elsewhere, caught in the years before this moment. Because this love didn’t start here.

It started long before.

FIFTH GRADE.

You met Chris at ten years old, standing awkwardly in the doorway of your parents’ friend’s house.

“This is Chris,” your mom said, nudging you forward.

He had messy brown hair, an oversized hoodie, and a smile that made you think he probably got in trouble at school a lot.

He gave you a shy nod. “Hi.”

You stared for a moment, then mumbled, “Hi.”

The adults left you alone, and somehow, within an hour, you were arguing over who could beat who in Bedwars. By the time your parents came back, you were already thick as thieves, plotting some grand scheme to get extra dessert at dinner.

From that day on you couldn’t remember a memory that he wasn’t in.

EIGHTH GRADE

You learned that heartbreak could come before high school.

There was a boy- your first real crush. He was charming, sweet, made you feel special. Until, suddenly, he didn’t.

You found out from a friend that he had been texting someone else the entire time. That everything he said to you, he said to her too.

Chris found you at the park that night, sitting on the swings, kicking at the dirt, trying not to cry.

He sat next to you without a word. Just there. Present. Until you were ready.

“I really liked him,” you admitted eventually, voice small.

Chris scoffed. “Yeah, well, he’s an idiot.”

You sniffled, glancing at him. “You think?”

Chris nodded firmly. “Obviously. He had you and still wanted someone else? That’s just stupid.”

Something about the way he said it, so certain, made your heart feel just a little lighter.

You didn’t know it then, but that was the first time Chris made you feel like you were worth more than the people who hurt you.

It wouldn’t be the last.

JUNIOR YEAR.

Prom was supposed to be perfect.

Instead, your date cheated. Chris’s date bailed.

And somehow, you ended up at prom together- dressed up, but ditching the actual dance for a late-night drive, fast food in hand, sitting on the hood of his car in the school parking lot.

“You think we’re cursed?” you joked, pulling a fry from the bag.

Chris smirked, leaning back on his palms. “Or maybe we just keep picking the wrong people.”

You glanced at him then- at the way the Boston lights reflected in his eyes, at the way he always showed up when no one else did.

For a moment, you almost said something. Almost realized something.

But instead, you just smiled. “Guess we’re each other’s backup plan now, huh?”

Chris had looked down at his feet and let out an almost sad sounding chuckle, “Guess so.”

But he didn’t feel like a backup plan.

Not even then.

SENIOR YEAR.

It wasn’t sudden.

It wasn’t a grand, dramatic moment where everything clicked into place.

It was gradual. Like the slow rising of the sun, creeping into your life until one day, you realized- he had always been the light.

Chris had always been there. Through every heartbreak, through every bad decision, through every night spent crying over people who didn’t deserve you.

And then one day, you just knew.

It was late, past midnight, the two of you lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, laughing about something dumb, something unimportant. And then the laughter faded, and suddenly, the air felt different.

Chris was looking at you. Really looking at you.

And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

Your heartbeat quickened. You swallowed.

“Chris.”

He shifted, his fingers barely brushing against yours between the sheets. “Yeah?”

You took a breath.

“I- I think it’s always been you.”

Silence.

His breath hitched, but his fingers curled around yours, holding tight.

“I-” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “God, I was scared to say it first.”

Your chest ached, but for the first time, it wasn’t painful. It was full.

You smiled, biting your lip. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes soft, full of something you had been searching for in everyone else but only ever found in him.

And then he kissed you.

And everything made sense.

Back in the apartment, Chris shifts beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Just remembering.”

He hums. “Good memories?”

“The best.”

Chris tilts his head, studying you. “Wanna share?”

You turn to face him, meeting the gaze of the boy who had always been there, who had never let you go.

The rain outside is still steady and you let your head rest against his chest again, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Safe. Home.

“You ever think about soulmates?” you ask, voice quiet but certain.

Chris smirks, locking his phone and setting it aside. “Yeah.”

You lift a brow, tilting your head to look up at him. “Oh really? Always been me?”

He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to your forehead before leaning back against the couch. “Yes, my love. Always been you.”

Your heart swells. Even after all these years, hearing it still makes something in your chest ache in the best way.

Chris shifts, pulling you even closer, wrapping his arms around you completely, tucking your head under his chin. You sigh against his hoodie, breathing him in, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh.

For a while, you just exist like that- wrapped up in each other, listening to the rain, the outside world feeling so far away.

Then Chris hums. “What do you wanna do for dinner?”

You tilt your head, thinking. “What about some PF Chang’s?”

His face lights up. “That sounds incredible.”

You grin, watching as he grabs his phone and pulls up DoorDash, immediately placing the order without hesitation. Because it’s the city, and neither of you want to go out in the rain when food can be delivered straight to your door.

When the food arrives, you both sit on the couch, containers spread out on the coffee table. You grab a pair of chopsticks, but Chris, like always, opts for a fork, shooting you a smug look like he’s superior for it.

“You’re so uncultured,” you tease, grabbing a dumpling.

Chris snorts. “I just don’t like fighting for my food.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it- just warmth, just love.

As you eat, the conversation shifts to your future, like it always does.

“What about baby names?” Chris muses, stealing a bite of your lo mein like it’s his. “What do you like?”

You smirk. “You planning on knocking me up tonight or something?”

Chris smirks. “Definitely planning on fuckin’ you but, getting you pregnant? We’ll see.”

You shrug nonchalantly, picking up a garlic noodle with your chopstick. “I still want you to cum inside me tonight regardless.”

He chokes on his food, coughing as he glares at you. “Jesus, give me a warning before you say stuff like that. I’m gonna get hard.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder. “I’m serious, though. You ever think about it? Baby names, becoming parents, getting me pregnant…?

Chris swallows, setting his container down before shifting to look at you fully. His expression softens, thoughtful. “Yeah,” he admits. “I have.”

You raise a brow. “And?”

He smirks. “You first.”

You sigh dramatically, leaning back into the couch, pretending to think. “I like the name Owen for a boy,” you say eventually. “And maybe Elliot for a girl. Her nickname would be Ellie”

Chris nods. “Owen? That’s my middle name. But Ellie is really cute. I like that.”

“Yeah, goof. It would be named after you, handsome. But what about you?”

He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand as he blushes softly. “I’ve always liked the name Weston for a boy,” he says, glancing at you. “And for a girl… maybe Aria.”

You smile. “Aria is cute.”

Chris nudges you. “So, our kid’s name is either Owen, Ellie, Weston, or Aria. Got it.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart swells anyway. “I can’t imagine having a kid anytime soon.”

Chris grins, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “No rush,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your shoulder. “We’ve got time.”

You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair.

“Okay, more future talk,” he says after a moment. “Houses. Where do we end up?”

You hum. “Do you wanna stay in Boston?”

Chris tilts his head. “I like Boston, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere quieter. Maybe something coastal? A place where we can sit on the porch and watch the sunrise. What about my family's cape house?”

You smile. “That sounds perfect.”

Chris grins, tapping his fingers lightly against your back. “Can you imagine being as a full time suburban dad?”

You snicker. “Hard to imagine you giving up city life and inheriting Matt’s minivan to truck our kids around.”

Chris groans. “Please never let me get that goddamn minivan.”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Deal.”

The remnants of dinner are still scattered across the coffee table- half-empty takeout containers, crumpled napkins, chopsticks resting haphazardly in cartons, four empty pepsi cans. Chris groans, stretching his arms before nudging you with his knee.

“You ready to clean this up?” he asks, though he doesn’t look like he wants to move any more than you do.

You sigh dramatically, leaning back against the couch. “Or… we could just leave it here and deal with it in the morning.”

Chris snorts. “No way. You hate waking up to a mess.”

You grumble, knowing he’s right. “Fine. But you’re taking out the trash.”

“Deal.”

The two of you move in sync, cleaning up without much thought- him stacking the containers, you wiping down the table. Domesticity has always been easy with Chris, effortless in a way that feels like breathing. It’s not something you ever have to think about; it just is.

Once the apartment is back in order, you stretch, letting out a soft yawn.

Chris grins, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin against your shoulder. “Bed?”

“Yes.”

You slip into the bathroom while Chris grabs water for both of you. The space is warm, the soft yellow glow of the vanity lights reflecting off the marble. You change into one of your favorite comfy outfits- an oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the thin strap of your lace bralette underneath, paired with soft gray Calvin Klein boyshorts that hug your hips just right.

The fabric of the sweatshirt nearly swallows you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs, the sleeves hanging just past your wrists. It smells like detergent, a little like Chris, a little like the home you’ve built together.

By the time you start brushing your teeth, Chris enters, setting the water bottles on the counter before glancing at you in the mirror.

His eyes darken immediately, lips parting slightly as he takes you in- the way the sweatshirt slips off your shoulder, the way your shorts sit snug on your curves.

“You trying to kill me, baby?” he mutters, voice thick.

You smirk around your toothbrush. “I just put on something comfortable.”

Chris shakes his head, stepping closer behind you, his hands skimming the edge of the sweatshirt before resting low on your hips. “Yeah? This is comfortable?”

You nod, watching his gaze flick between your reflection and the way his hands trace slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

You fumble your phone, and it slips from the counter, landing with a soft thud on the floor.

You sigh through your toothbrush, bending over to grab it.

And that’s when you hear it.

A sharp inhale. The softest curse under Chris’s breath.

“Fuck, baby.”

Before you can straighten, his hands slide over your hips, firm but reverent. One palm presses against the small of your back, the other smoothing over your ass, fingers flexing as if he can’t help himself.

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your spine as you grip the sink for balance.

Chris leans in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You still up for that promise, baby?” His voice is low, gravelly, dripping with want.

Your breath hitches. “What promise?” you ask, playing coy.

Chris chuckles, dark and knowing, his fingers pressing a little more insistently into your skin. “The one where you let me cum inside you.”

Your heart pounds, the weight of his words sending a shiver down your spine. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and the heat in his eyes makes your knees weak.

Chris smirks, running his hands up your sides before spinning you to face him fully. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweatshirt, gripping your waist as he pulls you closer.

“You still want that?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours.

Your answer is immediate.

“Yes.”

Chris’s smirk deepens, satisfaction flickering in his darkened gaze. His grip tightens just enough to make you shiver, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he wants to leave his mark there.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, teasing, as he drags his hands over your hips, his thumbs tracing lazy circles. “You want me to fill you up, make sure you feel me long after, huh?”

You swallow, pulse hammering against your ribs. There’s no hesitation when you nod, your breath hitching as his lips graze yours- featherlight, just enough to tease.

Chris hums, his hands sliding lower, squeezing your ass before lifting you onto the counter with ease. His body slots between your legs, firm and unyielding. He keeps you there, locked in place, his forehead resting against yours.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice rough with want.

Your fingers tangle in his hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer, your legs tightening around his waist.

“I want it, Chris,” you whisper, lips barely brushing his. “I want you to cum inside me.”

A sharp inhale from him, and then his mouth crashes onto yours, all heat and hunger. His fingers slide under your sweatshirt again, this time with purpose, exploring, claiming.

“Shit, baby,” he groans against your lips, his hands pushing higher, tugging at your clothes.

He doesn’t waste another second. His hands slip beneath your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the counter with effortless strength. Your arms loop around his neck instinctively, your breath coming in short, heated bursts as he carries you through the dimly lit apartment.

The air between you is thick, charged, every step he takes toward the bedroom making your anticipation coil tighter. His lips find your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat as he nudges the bedroom door open with his foot.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, your body is already burning for him. Chris hovers over you, his hands planted on either side of your head, his darkened blue eyes devouring every inch of you.

“Been wanting to do this all night,” he murmurs, fingers dipping under the hem of your sweatshirt again, this time pushing it up with agonizing slowness. “Take my time with you.”

Your stomach tightens as he peels the fabric over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His gaze drinks you in, lingering on your bare skin, the way your chest rises and falls beneath him.

“Ma,” he breathes, his hands already roaming again, thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You reach for his hoodie, fingers curling around the hem as you tug. “Then take this off,” you whisper, your voice breathless, needy.

Chris smirks but obliges, pulling it over his head and letting it drop to the floor. His toned chest and arms are bare now, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows over the ridges of his muscles.

Your hands roam over his skin, tracing along his collarbones and his happy trail. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breathing heavy as he slides his hands down your body, toying with the waistband of your shorts.

“These too,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire, as he hooks his fingers into them, dragging them down your legs inch by inch. The sensation sends a shiver through you, every inch of your exposed skin burning under his touch.

Once your shorts are gone, Chris kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands smoothing over your thighs as he leans down, pressing slow, lingering kisses to your soft and wet cunt. His lips trail higher towards your clit, teasing, making your breath hitch.

Then, just when you think you might combust, he pulls back, standing to his full height.

Your eyes lock onto his as he unbuttons his jeans, dragging the zipper down slowly. He doesn’t look away- not as he pushes them past his hips, not as they fall to the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, the evidence of his desire straining against the fabric.

“Your turn,” you whisper, eyes flicking to the last piece of clothing between you.

Chris smirks, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down.

Chris lets his boxers drop to the floor, kicking them aside before crawling back over you, his body warm and solid against yours. His hands find your thighs, spreading them wider as he settles between them, his weight pressing into you in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Yeahhhh,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. “You’re so fucking perfect. Every single inch of you.” His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing you all over again, tracing over your curves, his thumbs brushing against your hip bones.

You shudder under his touch, gripping onto his shoulders, needing something to anchor you. Chris smirks against your skin, his lips pressing sloppy kisses over your collarbone, then lower, taking his time.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he whispers, his breath hot against your peaked nipples. “Never get tired of touching you, tasting you… fucking filling you up.”

Your breath stutters, heat pooling low in your stomach at his words. His hands slide down, gripping your hips firmly, fingers pressing possessively into your skin.

“You love that, don’t you?” he murmurs, tilting his head to watch your reaction. “Love knowing I wanna fill you up every time. Keep you like this-” he grinds his hips against you, slow and deliberate, making you gasp. “So full of me.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and Chris groans, rolling his hips again, teasing you, making your body arch into his.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice rough, edged with need. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

Your head tilts back against the pillows, a whimper slipping from your lips. “I want it, Chris,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Want you to fill me up.”

Chris growls low in his throat, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips ghosting over yours. “Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs. “You know that? The way you say it… the way you look at me like that. I swear, I could spend every fucking day buried inside you and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body tightening in anticipation. His fingers trail down, teasing, testing your patience.

“You ready for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick, teasing as his eyes flick up to meet yours. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “I need you, Chris.”

Chris groans, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips, slow and deep, before pulling back just enough to line himself up, swiping his cock a few times through your built up arousal. His gaze locks onto yours, intense, unwavering.

“Then take it,” he murmurs. “Take all of me.”

Chris doesn’t hold back. He pushes in slowly at first, savoring the way your body reacts to him, how you gasp and clutch at his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist. His jaw clenches as he watches you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with need.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours. “You feel so good, baby. Always so fucking perfect for me.”

Your breath stutters, your nails dragging down his back as he sinks deeper, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is delicious, a slow burn that makes your head spin, and Chris eats up every little sound you make, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. He leans back just enough to watch your expression, his hands roaming over your tits and cupping them, mapping every inch of you. “You take me so fucking well. Every time.”

Your head tilts back, a moan slipping from your lips as he rolls his hips, setting a slow, deep rhythm. Chris groans at the feeling, his fingers pressing into your skin like he never wants to let go.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, kissing along your jaw, down to your throat. “Let me in- let me fill you up just the way you need.”

His pace quickens just a little, his control hanging by a thread as he watches you come undone beneath him. Every thrust pushes him deeper, making you gasp, your body arching into his.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer. “So fucking tight, so warm- like you were made for me.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your lips parting in a desperate gasp as he hits the perfect spot inside you. Chris feels it, sees the way your body responds, and it makes something primal snap inside him.

“That’s the spot, huh?” he murmurs, a smirk playing at his lips even as his own breath is ragged. “Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna let me fill you up like you need?”

“Chris,” you whimper, your body tightening around him, heat coiling low in your stomach.

“Say it,” he growls, his thrusts getting rougher, more desperate. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you need me to cum inside you.”

Your back arches, pleasure crashing over you in waves as your orgasm hits and you squeeze him impossibly tight. “I need it- I need you to fill me up, Chris. So bad.”

He groans, his grip on you tightening as he thrusts harder, deeper, chasing his release. “F- fuck, baby, I’m gonna- ” His breath shudders, his movements getting sloppier as he buries himself as deep as he can, his body tensing.

A guttural moan tears from his lips as he spills inside you, holding you tight, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His breathing is heavy, his body trembling slightly from the intensity of it, and he presses lazy kisses against your skin as he comes down.

“Shit,” he breathes, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you flush against him. “I swear, I’ll never get tired of this. Never get tired of you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, running your fingers through his hair, still coming down from your own high.

Chris doesn’t move for a moment, still catching his breath, his body heavy and warm against yours. But then, as if something clicks in his mind, he shifts, gripping your hips with both hands.

Without warning, he pushes your hips up, angling them just enough to keep every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the sudden movement, your body still sensitive, your legs trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

“Chris- fuck.” you murmur, a dazed little laugh slipping from your lips, “what are you doing?”

His fingers press into your skin, his grip firm, possessive. His darkened blue eyes flick down to where you’re still connected, then back up to your face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Making sure it stays,” he murmurs, voice rough, teasing but laced with something deeper, something almost primal.

Your breath catches. “I thought you didn’t want me to get pregnant.”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing kisses along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips lingering, his hands still keeping your hips in place.

“I never said that,” he finally murmurs, his voice husky, “maybe I like the idea more than I let on.”

Your heart stutters. Heat blooms in your chest, pooling low in your stomach again despite how spent you already are. Chris tilts his head, watching your reaction closely, his smirk deepening as he sees the way his words affect you.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby,” he teases, pressing another kiss to your collarbone. “You’re the one who begged me to cum inside you.”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you actually wanted-”

Chris cuts you off with a slow roll of his hips, just enough to remind you he’s still inside you, still keeping everything right where he wants it. You gasp, your fingers gripping his arms.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he murmurs. “You know how fucking good it feels. How right it feels.” His lips graze your ear. “Tell me you don’t love it.”

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering. “I do,” you whisper.

Chris smirks against your skin, his hands tightening on your hips. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “And who knows… maybe one day, I won’t just be filling you up for fun. Maybe one of these days I’ll fuck a baby into you.”

Your stomach flips, your whole body flushing at his words. Chris just chuckles, his expression dark and full of satisfaction as he kisses you again- slow, deep, claiming.

“But for now,” he murmurs, letting his weight settle over you again, his hands still holding you in place, “we’ll just make sure it sticks.”

Chris finally releases his hold on your hips, letting you relax into the mattress, though he doesn’t pull away just yet. He presses a few lingering kisses against your shoulder, his hands smoothing over your sides as he breathes you in.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice warm and tender now, the teasing edge from before softened.

You nod, still catching your breath, your body pleasantly sore in the best way. “Yeah… just feel like I can’t move.”

Chris chuckles, rolling off of you but staying close. “Guess I did my job right, then.” He smirks, but before you can throw a pillow at him, he leans in, brushing his lips over your forehead. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.”

He helps you up, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist as you both make your way to the bathroom. He’s gentle as he runs a warm washcloth over your skin, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your shoulders, wherever he can reach. It’s such a contrast from the heat of earlier, but it makes your heart swell all the same.

Once you’re both cleaned up, you slip on one of Chris’s hoodies- something oversized and soft- and climb into bed. Chris follows, pulling you close, his arms wrapped securely around you as he buries his face in your hair.

“Love you,” he mumbles sleepily, his lips brushing against your temple.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Love you too, Chris.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

You groan, dropping your forehead against the kitchen counter as another wave of nausea rolls through you. “Ugh, I feel awful.”

Chris looks up from where he’s leaning against the fridge, brows furrowing with concern. “Still feeling sick, baby?”

You nod, rubbing your stomach with a frown. “Yeah… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep feeling nauseous at the most random times. And I swear, I smelled coffee earlier, and it made me want to throw up.”

Chris winces, stepping closer and rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. “I’m so sorry, baby. Can I do anything?”

You shake your head, sighing. “I don’t even know what would help. It’s just been happening out of nowhere.”

Chris presses a kiss to the side of your head, his touch warm and comforting. “Maybe you just ate something bad? Or you’re stressed?”

“Maybe,” you mumble, but you’re not entirely convinced. “Are you sure the chicken last night was fully cooked?”

“I check it twice. It was.” Chris gives you a sympathetic look. “Tell you what- I’ll make you some tea, and then we can just chill on the couch, yeah? I’ll rub your back, we can watch whatever dumb reality show you wanna put on.”

That makes you smile a little, and you nod. “Okay. That sounds nice. Thank you baby.”

Chris grins, pressing another kiss to your forehead before heading to the kettle. “Anything for my girl.”

ONE WEEK LATER

You groan as you lean over the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on your face in a desperate attempt to shake off the lingering nausea. It’s been happening every morning now- like clockwork. And as much as you’d been hoping it was just a stomach bug or something that would pass, it wasn’t going anywhere.

“Baby?” Chris’s voice is groggy, laced with sleep as he steps into the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. “You okay?”

You let out a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “Same as yesterday. And the day before that.”

Chris frowns, stepping closer, his hands settling on your waist as he looks you over. His touch is warm and grounding, but when his thumbs brush against your sides, you wince subconsciously.

Chris notices immediately, his brows drawing together. “Hey… why’d you flinch?”

You shake your head, still trying to wake up fully. “I didn’t-” But then his hands slide up a little higher, skimming under your hoodie, and the moment his thumbs brush against the curve of your breasts, you jolt.

Chris’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Okay. That was a reaction.”

You frown, stepping back slightly, your arms crossing over your chest. “They’ve just been… weirdly sensitive lately.”

Chris tilts his head, his gaze flicking down before his lips curl into the smallest smirk. “Not to mention…” His hands return to your sides, his touch slow, almost hesitant. “Baby, I swear to God, they look bigger. Like huge. It makes me so horny.”

You scoff. “Chris!”

“I’m serious!” He gives you a pointed look, stepping back just enough to take you in. “They’re… I don’t know, plumper? And you’ve been nauseous for over a week. You’re throwing up every morning. You don’t think…?”

You blink at him, brows furrowing. “Think what?”

Chris’s expression shifts- something between excitement and pure realization flickering across his face. He licks his lips, searching your eyes, almost as if he’s waiting for you to catch up.

“Baby,” he says slowly, carefully, “you don’t think you could be… pregnant?”

The words hang between you, heavy and thick in the quiet morning air. Your stomach twists- but not from nausea this time.

Your lips part slightly, a small laugh slipping out- almost disbelieving. “Chris, there’s no way…” But then, as you say it, the last few weeks flash through your mind. The exhaustion. The cravings. The nausea. The sensitivity. The way you haven’t used a condom with him in months and he hasn’t been pulling out.

Chris watches you closely, his smirk fading into something softer, more serious. His hands settle on your hips again, thumbs rubbing slow circles. “Baby,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, “when’s the last time you had your period?”

Your stomach drops. Your mind races as you try to remember, but the more you think about it, the more your chest tightens. You should’ve had it by now. You always keep track. But with everything going on, you hadn’t even noticed.

Chris sees the realization hit you. His hands tighten just slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. “Shit,” you whisper.

Chris lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah. Shit.”

You look up at him, heart pounding, eyes wide. “Chris… what if I am?”

He’s silent for a moment. Just looking at you. And then, slowly, his lips curl into a grin.

“Guess we should find out.”

Chris doesn’t waste a second. The moment the realization fully settles between you, he’s already moving. He grabs his phone and wallet off the nightstand, shoving his feet into the closest pair of sneakers.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before darting toward the front door.

You blink, still in shock. “Wait- Chris, where are you-”

But he’s already gone.

You stand there for a moment, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. This has to be a joke, right? There’s no way this is actually happening. But as you place a hand over your stomach, the reality starts creeping in.

A few minutes later, you hear the front door swing open again, followed by the unmistakable crinkle of plastic bags.

“Alright, baby, let’s do this!” Chris’s voice is practically beaming as he jogs back into the bedroom, his arms full of pregnancy tests. You stare in disbelief as he drops multiple boxes onto the bed, some falling onto the floor in the process.

“Chris,” you say slowly, eyes widening. “What the fuck is this?”

“Options,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I got every brand they had. Digital ones, line ones, ones that apparently have smiley faces-” He pauses, flipping a box over before tossing it onto the pile. “I didn’t know there were this many kinds, honestly, but we’re covering all bases.”

You shake your head, staring at the sheer amount of tests in front of you. “Ten tests, Chris?”

“At least ten,” he corrects, grinning.

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms. “Why are you so happy about this?”

Chris hesitates for half a second before letting out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Honestly? I don’t know. I just… am.”

You search his face, expecting to see panic or nerves, but all you find is pure excitement- like he wants this. Like the idea of you possibly carrying his baby is something he’s already embracing.

Your stomach twists, but not in a bad way. It’s terrifying and overwhelming, but with the way he’s looking at you, it also feels… oddly okay.

Chris claps his hands together, bringing you back to reality. “Alright, let’s go. Go pee on some sticks.”

You snort despite yourself. “Some?”

“All of them,” he corrects, already scooping up the tests into his arms. “We need solid confirmation, baby. I need a goddamn unanimous decision from these things.”

Shaking your head, you exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair before turning toward the bathroom. “This is insane.”

Chris follows right behind you, grinning. “This is science.”

You roll your eyes, but as you close the bathroom door behind you, Chris leans against the sink, watching you with nothing but warmth in his gaze.

“Whatever happens,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, “we’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Your chest tightens, and you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

“Wait! Let me see what they say first. Don’t pee on anything!” Chris rips open one of the boxes with the same energy he probably had during his high school finals. He pulls out the instructions, unfolds them with an exaggerated flourish, and clears his throat.

“Alright,” he announces, squinting at the paper. “Step one: Remove the test from the wrapper.”

You snatch a test from one of the open boxes and rip it open with ease. “Done.”

Chris nods approvingly, scanning the next step. “Step two: Hold the absorbent tip in your urine stream for five seconds. Or dip it in a cup of urine for twenty seconds.”

You give him a flat look. “Absorbent tip?”

“Hey, I’m just reading what it says,” Chris says, holding up his hands in defense. He glances down again, then smirks. “Oh- this part’s important: Make sure you don’t pee on the result window. We need a clear reading, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks for the groundbreaking information, Chris.”

“Just looking out for accuracy.”

You shake your head, but your heart is thudding in your chest. This is actually happening.

Chris notices your hesitation and softens slightly, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

Chris nods, setting the instructions down on the counter before placing his hands on your hips. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “No matter what happens, we’re in this together. Got it?”

You nod, exhaling against his chest. “Got it.”

He smiles, giving you a small squeeze before stepping back. “Alright, go do your thing. I’ll be right here, being incredibly supportive and not at all annoying.”

You snort. “Mhm.”

Chris gasps dramatically. “Wow. So much doubt for the man who just spent a ridiculous amount of money on pregnancy tests for you.”

Shaking your head, you grab the cup from the counter- because there’s no way you’re risking peeing on your own hand in the middle of a life-altering moment- and step toward the toilet. “Okay, turnaround now.”

Chris throws his hands up. “I literally fucked this baby into you?!”

“We don’t know if there’s a baby yet!” You roll your eyes but do what needs to be done, filling the cup and carefully dipping the first test. Then another. And another. You cycle through each one, following the ridiculous variety of instructions. Five seconds for one. Twenty seconds for another. One where you had to cap it immediately and lay it on a flat surface.

Chris stands by the counter, eyes wide as he watches you line up ten tests in a perfect row.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “That’s a lot of science happening at once.”

You let out a breath, setting the last test down. “Now what?”

Chris grabs one of the boxes, scanning the fine print. “Now we wait.”

You swallow hard, wiping your hands on a towel before gripping the edge of the sink. “How long?”

Chris squints at the instructions. “Three minutes.”

Three minutes.

Three minutes to find out if your whole world is about to change.

Chris must sense your nerves because he steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his lips brushing your jaw. “I can set a timer. Or we can just stare at them aggressively until something happens.”

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning back against him. “Okay… let’s do it.”

Chris’s phone is already in his hand before you even say anything. He holds it up, pressing record with a grin.

“For our future kid,” he says, his voice full of barely contained excitement.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You don’t even know if it’s positive yet.”

Chris smirks, shaking his head. “I have a feeling, baby.”

Your stomach twists as you reach for the first test. Your fingers tremble slightly, and you can feel Chris’s anticipation radiating off of him. With a deep breath, you flip it over.

Two lines.

Positive.

Your heart stops.

Chris lets out a sharp inhale, but before either of you can fully process it, you reach for the second test.

Positive.

The third.

Positive.

Every. Single. One.

Chris stares at them for half a second before a wide grin spreads across his face. “Holy shit.” His phone lowers slightly as he turns to look at you, his eyes shining. “Baby- holy shit!”

Before you can react, he grabs you, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You gasp, gripping his shoulders as a laugh bubbles out of you, your nerves momentarily forgotten.

“Chris!” You giggle, clinging to him as he twirls you.

“I knew it,” he exclaims, setting you down just enough to crash his lips against yours. The kiss is heated, desperate, but full of so much love that your chest tightens.

Then, before you even realize it, tears start slipping down your cheeks. You pull back slightly, your hand flying to your stomach as a sob escapes you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Our baby is in my stomach.”

Chris freezes, his hands still gripping your waist. He stares at you like he’s just now fully comprehending it, like the reality of it all is truly sinking in. His lips part slightly, his breath hitching.

“Our baby,” he murmurs, and the way he says it- so full of awe, of love- makes your heart ache.

But then, almost instantly, his entire demeanor shifts. His grip tightens, his eyes darting around the room like his brain is moving a mile a minute.

“Shit. I need to tell my mom. And my dad. And my brothers.” He steps back, running a hand through his hair, pacing slightly. “What about your family? Should we call them first? And the apartment- fuck, we need to start looking at places with an extra room. Or at least be ready for when she grows up- ”

You blink. “She?”

Chris stops, looking at you dead serious. “I don’t know, baby, I just know. I have this gut feeling that my new babygirl is growing inside you right now.”

Your heart clenches at the sheer certainty in his voice.

But then he’s spiraling again. “Oh God, we don’t have anything for a baby. I need to research cribs- what’s the safest crib? And strollers- shit, what’s a good stroller brand? I don’t know anything about strollers! And- fuck, baby, we’re twenty-one. I haven’t even married you yet!”

He turns to you, panic written all over his face now, and for the first time ever, you’re the calm one.

You step forward, reaching for his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Chris, baby, breathe.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, but he listens, taking a deep inhale as his eyes lock onto yours.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, pressing his hands against your stomach. “The way you reacted tells me all I need to know. You’re gonna be an amazing father.”

Chris swallows hard, his panic giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. His fingers flex against your stomach, like he’s already trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside you.

“You think so?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You smile, cupping his face. “I know so.”

Chris exhales shakily, closing his eyes for a moment before leaning forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you too.”

And in that moment, standing there in the tiny bathroom with ten positive pregnancy tests lined up on the counter, everything feels exactly as it should be.

MASTERLIST

tags: @bernardsbendystraws @mattsobvimyfav @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 @user1smvtysturniolo @briisturniolo @sturniololuvz @hesvoid34 @butterflytsblog @mommymomm @mattsbunnyxx @blushsturns @i8kth @annalisesturnioloxo @kenziesturniolo54 @ribread03 @sturnl0ve @grace-sturniolo12 @sophsturns @mattsturnfx @lilyloveschris @milo-the-dog @riggysworld @scrumptiouskoalabasement @tenaciousearthquakeperson @sturnlovematt22 @seros-girl @sofsturnz689 @sturniololuvz @eeyoresturnz

[jarofstyles]

Pressing Questions

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WC- 4.4k

Warnings- exhibitionism, slight breeding kink, completely cute n flirty babies, husband x wife kink???

---

“Hey, husband?” 

“Yes, Wife?” It sounded so good coming from their lips. It made her borderline giddy as she looked over at him to find him already looking over at her. The flush she felt in her cheeks bled down to her chest. They were finally fucking married. 

“What made you decide you were marrying me?” Y/N asked as she lounged next to him. Their honeymoon in full swing, Harry had rented out a cabana with a daybed so he could cuddle up to her on the beach and Y/N was positive now that it was definitely one of many things he had up his sleeve. The aesthetic had been perfect to her Pinterest board, but she had a feeling Harry knew that.

Roses in the room, champagne upon arrival, brand new swimwear just for her… she had been absolutely spoiled since they landed. Just like he promised. 

The warm air flowed over their forms, her head resting on her bent arm as the other held the fruity cocktail she had drunk an embarrassing amount of in the last three days. Some kind of coconut and lime thing that had her feeling more giggly than she could remember being in most of her adult life, but she was safe here. Safe with Harry, just like she had been dreaming of. 

 Harry chuckled and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to his chest. He traced a lazy circular pattern on her bare hip with his fingertips as he spoke, his voice low and deep. Slightly hushed, keeping it intimate. Just the way she liked it. It was like he was fine tuned to appear to each and every thing she found attractive- or somehow managed to make everything he did appeal to her. Either way, she felt her tummy flutter. 

"Darling, is this a trick question? Do you really think I only have one reason to marry you?”  Her husband acted like it was a ridiculous question but pressed a kiss to her forehead, giving her an answer regardless.  "You’re beyond beautiful, the funniest person I’ve ever met, smart as a tack... and you put up with all my ridiculous bullshit. All of those cliche reasons and more. Not t’mention you dealing with my insane schedule and giving me your honest opinions whenever I ask, even if they’re a little sassy.” Giving her a look, he got the laugh he wanted out of her before tilting his head in question. “Why wouldn’t I marry you?”

“I dunno, I just feel like…. I mean, I know I’m a catch.” She smirked, giving him a wink that she immediately regretted. At least she could be cringey with him and he would find it endearing. Her winks were not nearly as cute as his were.  “But was there a singular moment that you knew you were going to keep me?” His touch always did make her melt. 

Harry, ever the touchy and slightly clingy boyfriend- nay, husband-, couldn’t keep his hands off of her before they got married but… compared to this trip? Y/N was genuinely unsure there was a single moment without him with his touch somewhere on her body. It had been a little shocking at first but every single moment made her feel more addicted to the fingertips pressing into her, arms pulling her into his body or the lips ghosting her skin. The real problem would be when they got home and she couldn’t just have this on tap. 

Harry let out a deep breath, shifting to roll onto his side and propping his head up with his hand as he took in her beauty. The sun was giving her skin a warm, golden glimmer, and it took all his willpower not to pounce on her at that very moment and take her right there in the cabana.

"You want one singular moment, huh?" He hummed, pretending to think about it as his fingertips continued their slow path tracing her body. "There was this one time..."

Her breathing caught in her throat as his fingers took a lazy trail over her body. Harry had this way about him that had made her a little nervous with how attentive his gaze was, but even so… she loved that feeling. Like he was always clinging onto her last word. Even as her husband, he seemed to use this power to his advantage. 

“Mmm?” She asked, tossing back the final bit of her drink before fiddling with the cute little paper umbrella. “What time?”

His lips curled up into a small, smug smirk as he watched her react to his touch. He loved the power he had over her, the way his fingers seemed to make her breathless and her eyes got a little hazy. The way her body subconsciously arched into his touch.

Harry moved his hand from her hip, slowly tracing it up her side and over her ribcage, his touch so light that it almost tickled.  "It was very early on," he said, his voice low and husky. "We were at my place, just hanging out. You were wearing this… little fucking tank top." The way he said it made her know that he was thinking about that tank top to this day. Flattering, even if she couldn’t place the moment he was talking about.

She had to wrack her brain for a moment, trying to remember which day it was that he was referring to. The beginning days had been slightly hazy considering their romance had gone from tentative flirtation to a whirlwind as soon as the sexual dam had broken. 

“Which tank top?” 

Harry's smile grew wider as he saw her trying to remember. It was something he could never forget. "It was that little pink one, with the sexy little bit of lace at the neckline. Lacy straps, too," he said, his voice taking on a slightly dreamy tone as the memory played in his head. "It was so teeny tiny that I could see your bra through it..." Moving closer to her, his hand moved lower on her body, tracing over the soft, sensitive skin of her stomach. He knew exactly how he was affecting her. It was considered a bit of payback for said tank top.

"And those shorts you had on... so short that I could see your hips and legs… and the bottom of your bum when you moved the right way? Mm, I think you’ve always been so cruel with teasing me, baby.” The man obviously loved it though. There was no hiding that from her. 

Despite it being a private beach, Y/N felt the flutter of both fear and anticipation as he flirted with her so blatantly. Recalling a time she could definitely remember now, a movie night at his place where she had worn a matching pajama set that wasn’t outright sexy but… definitely was known to show off her body.

“Ohhhh. That one.” She grinned. “Seeing me in that made you know you were gonna marry me? Perv.”

“Hey now, I just appreciate beauty when I see it.” Harry countered with a laugh, acting slightly affronted as if his hand wasn’t now resting just over the waistband of her bikini. “So sue me for thinking y’looked incredible.”

 Moving even closer to her, his body pressed against hers as his lips brushed against her ear. His voice was sultry as he spoke, a little kiss pressed right underneath it.  “And I distinctly remember you wearing that little outfit just to drive me absolutely wild, you little minx. You can’t even deny it now. I know how that pretty head of yours works.”

Y/N snickered at the call out, knowing he was very much correct. She had done it to test him, to see how much he was willing to put up with back in the day, what would make him tick. He may call it teasing, but she called it an experiment for scientific research. 

“You are such a flirt today.” She took a moment to put the glass down before facing him again, carding her fingers through his wavy hair. The sea air did something to it that made her even more attracted to him, something she hadn’t realized possible until she had seen it herself. “But keep the memories coming.” Aka the compliments. She felt loved up and was very much in the mood to hear more. “What else did you think?”

Harry's eyes darkened slightly as her fingers ran through his hair. He loved it when she touched him like that, it sent shivers down his spine, making him want to lean into her like an eager pup awaiting pets. 

"Other things that cemented it?" He murmured, his hand on her hip giving her a gentle squeeze.  “There’s loads. Mm… I’d have t’say, the way you'd get all flustered when I teased you. The way you'd get all sarcastic and bratty when I annoyed you. How you were so confident and fiery, but at the same time so shy and sweet..." he trailed off, knowing he could go on for hours and hours when it came to what he loved about her. It was hard to get him to shut up about it, actually. 

“So you like when I’m bratty. That’s what I’m hearing.” She giggled, teasing him slightly despite him scolding her for it prior. “I think my moment was when you set up that whole thing on Valentine’s Day. Cause god knows you’ve got all the money in the world but you knew I hate fancy restaurants so you did like… the whole blanket fort thing. With the charcuterie board and champagne.” The dreamy sigh left her lips. It had stuck with her every day since. He may not even realize how important it had been for her, but Harry was the first person she’d dated who had ever made her feel that special. 

“You listened to me when I said what I liked. You got my favorite movie lined up and made me sweet and salty popcorn like I like. You even remembered you popped the wrong one and told me to wait and… I dunno.” She shrugged with her shy smile lighting up her face. “I knew I’d never find anyone else like you.”

Harry's gaze softened as she spoke, warmth spreading through his chest as she described his absolute favorite Valentine's Day. He hadn't known at the time it had been such a pivotal moment for her, but now it made perfect sense. His wife was sentimental that way. Something personal meant way more than the clothes he had bought her, or the house he’d got for them. His thoughts were everything to her.

He gave her a tender look, shaking his head, fingers tracing a gentle path along her arm. It was impossible to keep his touch from her, and he didn’t feel like trying. "You mean when I accidentally burned the salted popcorn?" He winced at the memory. It was a weird thing he always thought about, but in his defense the smell had been pretty bad. Thankfully he had air freshener on hand, though apple cinnamon didn’t exactly mask burnt popcorn. 

"Yeah, sorry about that. I was so focused on making sure everything was just right for you that I didn't pay enough attention to the microwave. Plus, your pretty face was distracting enough. Could barely form a proper sentence.”

The warmth flooded her tummy at the compliment, making her want to kiss him even more. It was held off considering she knew it would most definitely be something that got carried away, but that didn’t stop the urges. “I’ll be honest, I probably would have eaten the burnt popcorn. The fact that you’d even managed to remember those little facts about me had me like… giddy. I hadn’t felt that way about a crush since I was a teenager.” The admission came easily.  There was no shame in how much she loved Harry, even if she did tease him to say he was the clingy one. 

 Another question popped into her head, and considering he seemed happy to talk now that he’d had his beachside nap, she took advantage of it. “Were you nervous to propose?”

Harry's hand moved back and rested on her hip, his fingers rubbing over the soft skin as he answered immediately. 

"Nervous? Oh, absolutely. Fucking terrified, my love. Even though I knew you'd say yes, I was still nervous as hell." He let out a sweet hum,  softly, leaning in closer to her, his lips almost touching her ear as he spoke.  "The most nerve-wracking part was the time between when I proposed and when you actually said yes. It felt like the longest minute of my life..."

“You knew I’d say yes. C’mon, H.” Y/N’s giddy grin made it past her lips. It was weirdly satisfying to know he had been nervous because it meant he had been worried about the prospect of not being with her forever. It had always been her plan to say yes, but still. 

Harry chuckled again, his chest rumbling beneath her head "Yes, darling, I did know that." His hand slid under her chin, gently lifting her head to meet his gaze. How much he loved her was visible in his eyes. She’d never experienced visibly seeing love before him. 

"But that didn't stop me from being nervous. I was just so… desperate for you to say yes, to be mine forever. The thought of even a moment of hesitation..."

He shuddered slightly and his grip on her tightened ever so slightly "It would've killed me."

“Oh, baby.” She cooed, deciding to baby him a little bit. Hearing that vulnerability really did something to her, tangling her fingers into the hair at his nape. “I’ve been yours since you first kissed me. Y’know that?” Y/N had been completely smitten. It was borderline concerning until she had realized he felt the same. “I had the biggest crush on you when we first met. You only continue to get better and better every day.” 

Tossing her leg over her hip, she relaxed into his hold as she gazed over his pretty face. He’d let his stubble grow out a bit, albeit a bit patchy- the look suited him. “You’ve been my husband in my head for a long time. I don’t think I could have ever said no.”

Harry's heart skipped a beat as she spoke. He had always loved it when she got like this, all soft and gentle and sweet on him. It was hard not to be greedy for this sort of affection. The feeling of her tangling her fingers in his hair combined with the press of her body against his had a shiver running down his spine.

"S’That so?" He purred, his voice making her squirm. "Because you’ve been mine since the moment I saw you, darling. You were the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen in my life, and I knew I had to have you. You belong with me, you always have."

The slight possessive speak made her throat thicken, tummy warm, between her thighs throb a little bit. The tenderness in which he spoke had her melting and it had nothing to do with the beachy heat. This was exactly why she knew she had made the perfect choice with him.  Her body knew it was him before her head even did. Her heart? Even before that. “Yeah? I’m yours?” She cooed, brushing her nose against his.

Harry groaned softly as she brushed her nose against his, his eyes falling half-lidded. "Mmm, yeah. You are. You're mine. All mine."

His voice was a low rumble, his grip on her tightening as he spoke. "No one else will ever touch you, darling. You belong to me. I won't ever share you, no part of you is for anyone else but me."

Y/N let out a breathy gasp as his hand skipped over her ass, under the bikini bottom’s to hold bare skin. The flesh was squeezed, heat spreading between her legs as the little grab only managed to make it worse. She couldn’t control it even if she tried. 

“H! There are people around.” She squealed nervously, but didn’t move his hand. The people were far away, the beach not too crowded, but she had to say it. It wasn’t unlike him to grab a feel, but he had no intentions of moving his hand. The man had been insatiable since their wedding night with no sign of stopping. 

Harry gave her a sly simper as his hand squeezed her ass again, kneading lightly. He knew they were technically in public, and he didn't care in the slightest. It was more exciting this way, he loved the danger of being caught, the thrill of almost being seen… he was on his honeymoon with his wife. Nothing else mattered.

"I don't care, darling. They can't see us over here... Besides, we're on our honeymoon. We can do whatever we want." Licking his lower lip as he pulled her closer to him, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

"And right now, I want you."

“Baby…” Y/N’s voice went all syrupy and whimpery as his tongue ran over her jaw, teeth stopping to nibble at her skin. “You’re gonna get me wet. And I’m still a little sore from last night…” 

Her face flushed at the memory of him pounding into her, desperate proclamations of love being panted into the air as he fucked her over and over. That had been intense and her poor body hadn’t fully recovered, but it couldn’t help but react to him. She wasn’t saying no though because… she didn’t want to. A glutton for punishment, maybe, but she craved him. Body, mind and soul. 

Harry's breath hitched as she whimpered, the sound going straight to his already thickening cock. The thought of getting her all riled up here, of making her feel good while hidden away did little but work him up further. Y/N had a master key to his body and just the tiniest noise, movement of word could have him undone at any moment. 

“H…” she whined, feeling his hand slip between them. Finding her already wet, she could feel him groan into her neck as he pressed kisses over her throat. “H- fuck.” 

Her pants did nothing to deter him. The slick sound of his fingers rubbing through her slit before finding her swollen clit was the loudest thing she could hear, over the music in the distance and the crashing waves. “God.. you’re so bad.” And it felt so good.

Her husband’s lips curled up in a lazy grin as his fingers slid effortlessly through the wetness of her cunt. He could hear her gasping quietly with every touch, and he knew she was desperately trying to keep it together. It was his job to undo her. "You love it when I'm bad, darling." He taunted, nipping at her neck. With a voice low and needy he continued whispering in her ear.  "See.. I think you love it when I'm naughty. Think that you want me to touch you, to slip my fingers over your needy cunt and make you feel good. Y’want that, don’t you baby?” 

Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned her head back, letting his mouth mark up her throat. It felt too good to stop him, and her body was aching for it. This was what a honeymoon was for. Wasn’t it?  

“Uh-huh.” She nodded. There was no use protesting when this was what she wanted anyway. “Just be gentle, please.” 

Harry hummed in agreement, his fingers still gently teasing her as he continued to mark up her throat. 

"Don't worry, baby, I'll be gentle. I'll take care of you, just like I always do." His free hand came up to cup her cheek, guiding her face up to look him in the eyes. 

"Just relax, my sweet girl, and let me make you feel good."

Her shaky breathing was only made worse as he made her look him in the eye as he pleasured her. The slick movement of his fingertips where she was swollen from his constant licking and rubbing and sucking had her head swimming, sensitive from the use she had been experiencing- but god, did she love it. 

She knew he was feeling even more worked up now that she was his wife officially, and he was letting her feel that. “You always make me feel s-so good.”

Harry's groan caught in his throat as he watched her, her eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. He fucking loved seeing her like this, all flushed and breathless because of him. His fingers toyed with her still, slow and gentle as he tried to make himself wait. "Good, because I love making you feel good… S’my favorite thing."

He pressed a few kisses to her cheek, his nose skimming over her skin as he moved to whisper into her ear. It sent shivers over her body, hard to keep herself from losing it as he touched her, practiced and knowing exactly where to taunt.

"You're so damn perfect, darling. My perfect, pretty little wife, letting me do filthy things to you. Love you so much."

Her hips rocked in time with his fingers, eyes closing for a moment as he kissed her neck again before whispering in her ear. When he gripped her chin again, he made her watch his face as he slowly sunk a finger into her. It wasn’t difficult given how soaking wet her poor pussy was, but she still felt the stretch. It was hard not to when they were that thick. 

A high pitched whine was cut off as she bit her lip, face contorting slightly as she felt him begin to move it. “It’s not f-fair, how easily you can… you can make me feel crazy.”

Harry hummed as he watched her face twist with pleasure, his finger still lazily pumping in and out of her. Feeling the walls clench around him and slick up his finger, he couldn’t get enough of her.  "Mmm, I know, darling. I know everything that drives you insane. I know all your sensitive spots, where you like to be touched, how you like it when I talk dirty to you..."

 Leaning in and biting down gently on her earlobe, his voice a deep murmur in her ear. "And I love that I'm the only one who knows those things."

“Mhm, the only one. You’re the only one.” She agreed vehemently. The pleasure was smooth and slow, building up as the slick sound of his finger being inside of her made it even more hot. “And you’re the only one who’s gonna put a baby in me too.” 

Y/N knew just how crazy that sort of talk made him, discovered it not too long ago, and she was aware she was playing with fire. She knew that, and yet she continued. 

Harry let out a deep, loud groan at her words, the sound almost feral. If anyone was nearby it would give them away, but he frankly didn’t give a fuck. He loved it when she talked like that, so shameless and filthy. Meeting him where he was at. It was no secret that he had been on a mission this trip, but Y/N knew what she did to him when she brought it up. His free hand dug into her cheek, gripping her tightly as his finger curved inside her, pressing into the slick, spongy walls. 

"Yeah? You want me t’get you pregnant, little darling?" His breath came out in huffed pants as his control started to slip a little. A button being pushed, almost all the way down. “Want me t’knock you up? Think we should try again… If you want that.” The memory of him pulling his cock out to watch the creamy mix slip out of her cunt before pushing back in to keep some plugged up into her the night prior came rushing back. 

That was exactly what he was craving. 

“Yeah, I want to… I want you to do it on this trip. Please? Wanna make you a daddy.” She keened, knowing they had little time at the beach left. He was going to lose control soon, and that had been her quickly executed plan.

Harry's control completely snapped at her words. He let out a low, guttural moan, his grip on her cheek firm as he laid a deep kiss on her mouth, licking into it and feeling her desperate kiss returned before he pulled back with a grunt and wet lips. She was ethereal, even in filthy situations like this. With beachy hair and bleary eyes, swollen mouth and the golden glow of the setting sun on her skin. Every day, every moment served as a reminder as to why he was so lucky to have her.

“God, you drive me fucking insane, darling. Y’know exactly what to say to get me all worked up, huh?" It was clear he couldn’t take it anymore. Y/N had hit her intended target, and he couldn’t be out here any longer because he would definitely get caught with a public indecency charge. Fingering was one thing, but the things he wanted to do to her? They needed privacy. 

He withdrew his finger, his voice a gruff whisper as he spoke into her ear. "Get up. Now.” 

A cry of loss left her swollen lips as he stood up, not caring at all about the bulge in his pants. He grabbed the beach bag, tossing it over his arm and surprised her as he tossed her over his shoulder too. 

“Harry!” She squealed. “H- oh my god. You caveman!” He walked towards the villa with her tossed over his shoulder, like she weighed nothing. Like the blatant show of strength wouldn’t make her even more aroused. 

Her husband chuckled at her protest, his hand coming down across her ass to give her a sharp smack. "Hush, wife. I said I'd take care of you, and that's exactly what I'm doing."

[bytemee]

EVERYTHING I WANT — yu jimin.

"i had finally figured out, you were just around the corner."

synopsis. you’re just the wedding planner for your brother’s wedding, trying to keep it all together. but karina, his fiancée, keeps slipping under your skin. she’s perfect—everything you’ve ever wanted—but she’s marrying your brother.

pairing. brothers!fiance!karina x wedding!planner!fem!reader

warning(s). angst w a mixture of fluff, love triangle, cheating (im sorry), angst with a happy ending.

words. 5.7k

authors note. i remember watching a gay movie like this.

navigation. main masterlist.

karina has a way of capturing the attention of everyone in a room, and her presence alone is enough to make the world pause. she walks in, all bright eyes and effortless grace, and somehow the entire room shifts to accommodate her. it’s almost like she belongs in a space much grander than this, but then, that’s karina—always radiant, always a little untouchable.

you’ve noticed it countless times before—it's part of the reason why your parents are so calm with the idea of your brother marrying her only months after they've met. karina—your brother’s fiancée, the one they think is perfect in every way. karina—the one who is everything they always hoped for in a partner for him. karina—the one who practically begged you to plan her wedding.

you have to admit, they make a beautiful couple. the way karina and your brother stand in the kitchen, laughing over something she said while she chops vegetables, her hands moving easily, like she’s done this a hundred times. your brother’s smiling at her like she’s the only person in the world. it’s all so natural, so effortless. you can’t deny that they love each other—it’s one of those things you just know. like the feeling of the ground beneath your feet or the wind against your skin. it’s just a fact.

it was the first time in a while you've been to their house, but your brother practically forced you into staying at his while you planned the wedding. they don't seem to mind, which is probably good considering you've taken over the living room as a workspace, with papers and decorations and fabric samples spread out across the coffee table and the couch.

but regardless, the two haven't decided on a venue yet, so the planning process is still in full swing. you had a list of about five venues you thought were promising, and you were hoping they'd settle on one soon so you could stop having to lug around your binder everywhere.

karina finishes up her task and sets the knife down, washing her hands off before she turns to you.

she walks over with that signature smile of hers, the one that makes everything seem like it’s shining just a little brighter. “hey, can we talk about the venue options for a sec?” she asks, her voice smooth like velvet, like it always is.

you glance up from the pile of papers in front of you, your gaze meeting hers for a second too long. the way she’s standing there, close enough to reach out and touch, makes it hard to focus. you blink, trying to get your head back in the game. “uh, yeah, sure. what’s on your mind?”

she leans against the back of the couch, her arms crossing lightly over her chest. “i know we’ve got some good options, but…” she hesitates for a moment, as if carefully considering her next words. “i’ve always wanted a wedding on the beach. you know, like those dreamy ones you see in magazines?”

you freeze for a moment, your fingers lingering over the corner of your binder. the beach. you can’t help the pang that hits you when she says it, because it's something you've always imagined for your own wedding one day, not anyone else’s. it’s silly, of course—you shouldn't have gotten so attached to a fantasy. but you can't help it. you'd always imagined a wedding on the beach, with the sun setting over the waves and sand beneath your feet.

she tilts her head a little, as if trying to figure out what's wrong. when you don't say anything, she speaks again, her tone more gentle. "are you okay?"

you try to shake it off, but karina always seems to notice everything. it's a little bit impressive, really. "oh, i'm fine. just a little tired." you quickly speak again before she can question you further. “you know, your fiancé’s pretty set on that greenhouse. it’s a pretty big deal for him.”

she nods, a small frown tugging at her lips. “i know,” she says softly. “i just can’t help but dream of the beach.” she pauses, then her eyes soften, and she adds with a little more playfulness, "i’ll let you handle the tough decisions. you’re the expert here, after all.”

you hate to let her down, but the odds of convincing your brother to change his mind are low. the greenhouse was his idea, and it means a lot to him, since your father married your mom there years ago. he had talked about wanting to recreate that day, the way the light filtered in through the glass, the flowers all around. his eyes had sparkled as he spoke, like he could imagine the entire scene unfolding before him. you couldn’t bring yourself to say no, not when he had been so excited.

you give a small laugh. “i’m just the wedding planner. you’re the one who has to live with the choice.”

she grins at you before walking away.

but even though you tell yourself it won't be your fault if she doesn't get her dream wedding, the guilt doesn't go away. you just hope she won't hate you for not being able to deliver the perfect day she's been waiting for.

you watch as she heads back over to the kitchen, your gaze lingering on her a little longer than it should. her smile is bright as ever, the one you're not sure you've ever seen her without, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

you swallow, then return to your work.

the venue. you can't get distracted. you're good at your job. you can do this.

the next few days pass in a flurry of phone calls and emails, and you're barely keeping track of which venue you're supposed to be going to see next. you've visited a handful, but it seems like they've all had the same issue—they don't have the space for the kind of wedding karina's dreaming of.

the pressure is starting to wear on you. you’ve been juggling so many details, from flowers to photographers to caterers, but every venue just feels off in one way or another. some are too big, some too small. others don’t have the kind of beachy vibe karina’s been dreaming of, and you can tell she’s starting to get a little discouraged.

you can see the way her shoulders slump when another place doesn’t meet her expectations, the way she tries to mask her disappointment with that perfect smile of hers. it’s hard to watch. but you also know this is her dream, her wedding. she deserves to have everything she’s envisioned for years.

“i swear, if i see one more ballroom…” you mutter under your breath, flipping through another round of emails, trying to see if any of the new suggestions could work.

karina, seated across from you in the café, lets out a small laugh. “you’re telling me. but we’ve got to keep looking, right?”

you look up, meeting her gaze for the first time in a while. she looks exhausted, her makeup a little faded from a long day of venue tours, but her smile is as warm as ever. it makes your heart ache.

you swallow, then turn back to your phone. "yeah. yeah, we do." you take a sip of your drink, not even removing your eyes from the screen. "i've been hearing a lot of good things about this one place, though."

karina leans forward, her elbows resting on the table. "which one?"

but before you can reply, a giggle leaves her lips, and she points to the side of your nose. "oh my god, you've got whipped cream on your nose. let me…"

her hand reaches out, and then she's touching you, her thumb brushing over the tip of your nose, sending shivers down your spine. she pulls her hand back, a little whipped cream on her thumb.

she smiles. "got it."

you blink, and your brain short-circuits for a second. her touch was so fleeting, but the warmth lingers.

she doesn't notice, already turned back to your phone ready to see the venue you were muttering about.

you exhale. the venue. right. focus.

and then, it happens.

when you get back home, an hour later you hear it from the other room—a loud argument, your brother's voice booming, and karina's pleading for him to just listen. your eyes widen. you'd never heard her raise her voice like that before.

they’ve always been so perfect together, but now, the disagreement over the wedding venue seems to be pushing things too far. you can’t make out the exact words, but you catch a few—the beach, the greenhouse, and your name a couple of times. the door slams shortly after, and everything falls silent.

you glance at the door leading to the hallway, torn between going to see what’s going on and staying out of it. the last thing you want is to get caught in the middle of their argument, but part of you can't help but feel concerned. this isn’t like them—karina, always the picture of composure, and your brother, usually so patient. it doesn’t add up.

you hear footsteps and then a quiet knock at the door. "are you awake?"

you take a deep breath. "yeah, come in."

the door opens, and karina walks in, looking as stunning as ever. her face is still flushed from the argument, but her hair is swept to the side, the light catching on her earrings. even in a moment like this, she's effortlessly beautiful.

"hey," you say softly, motioning toward the couch. "are you okay?"

she sits down beside you, her body relaxing a little, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. she nods, taking a deep breath before speaking. "i'm fine. we're fine."

you tilt your head, not fully believing her. you've been friends for years, after all. you can tell when she's holding something back. "are you sure? because i heard—"

"we're fine," she repeats, a little more firmly.

you nod, but you still feel unsure. it's clear they need some time to themselves, and you can't force her to tell you what's going on. “you know,” you say, shifting beside her, “if you need a break, we could do something completely different. a distraction. a moment just for you.”

she looks at you, eyes wide, clearly intrigued by the offer. “like what?”

a slow grin spreads across your face. “let’s get food for starters. and then…"

she cuts you off before you can finish. "as long as it involves wine, i'm in."

the smile is back, and your heart aches with it. you've missed seeing her smile, the way her eyes crinkle at the edges, her whole body seeming lighter. it's a feeling you never want to let go of.

without missing a beat, you get up and grab your keys. “perfect. let's go!"

you hold your hand out, and her fingers are warm in yours as you lead her out the door.

the two of you end up parked in front of a small, neon-lit burger joint tucked away on a quiet street. it’s one of those old-school places with a bright red roof and a hand-painted menu board by the drive-thru. it looks like it hasn't changed much since it was built decades ago, but that's exactly why you love it.

karina’s sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, the bottle of wine you impulsively grabbed resting between you. you’d managed to snag a couple of burgers and fries to go, and now the two of you are tucked away in the car, sharing fries like you’re the only people in the world.

“this is so random,” she says, laughing softly. she’s still got a bit of a flush from earlier—whether from the wine or the argument, you’re not sure. but for now, you try not to think about it. you don't want to ruin the moment.

“that’s what makes it perfect,” you reply, passing her a fry. she takes it with a smile, your fingers brushing briefly. your heart trips over itself at the contact, and you reach for the bottle of wine to take another sip. it’s not the fanciest vintage, but it’s doing the job.

karina takes the bottle next, swiping at the neck before drinking straight from it. when she lowers it, her eyes are sparkling with something mischievous. “i always liked the idea of writing my vows on something unconventional,” she says suddenly, resting her head against the seat. “like in the movies. you know, scribbled on the back of a napkin or a burger wrapper. something spontaneous and real.”

you can’t help but laugh. “we’ve got burger wrappers right here.”

her eyes light up. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not.”

she sets down the bottle and grabs the crumpled wrappers from the bag. “alright. let’s do it. right here, right now. our mock wedding.”

you raise an eyebrow. this was not how you thought the night was going to go, but then again, karina has always been full of surprises. she looks so excited at the idea; you can't bring yourself to say no. you're already in this deep, after all.

you grab a pen from the glove compartment, the tipsy energy between you growing contagious. you hand it over, and karina carefully smooths out one of the wrappers on her lap.

“alright,” she declares, biting back a grin. “i vow to always share my fries with you. even the crispy ones.”

you snort. “that’s a big promise.”

“and i vow to never judge you for eating burgers at midnight,” she adds, her grin widening.

“okay, my turn,” you say, leaning in. “i vow to always keep you stocked up on wine and burgers. and fries. all the good stuff. just in case of an emergency, of course. or for a spontaneous road trip. whichever comes first, i guess."

you're both giggling, and then her smile softens. she looks at you with those eyes, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. then her expression shifts. she takes a deep breath, fingers toying with the pen. “one more,” she says, her voice quieter now. “i vow to always be someone you can turn to, no matter what. even when things get messy or complicated.”

her eyes are still on yours, and you can't bring yourself to break the contact. you feel like the air has been knocked out of your lungs, and it's almost too much, too fast.

you finally manage to get the words out, your voice coming out a little strained. "i promise too."

karina smiles softly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair from your face. “let’s go somewhere,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“where?” you ask, still breathless.

she glances at the horizon, where the stars are just beginning to scatter across the night sky. “the beach.”

without another word, you put the car in drive and head toward the coast. the streets are quiet, the hum of the tires against the road the only sound as the town fades behind you. it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist—just you, karina, and the open road.

when you arrive, the beach is deserted, bathed in moonlight and the soft crashing of waves. you both kick off your shoes and walk toward the shoreline, the sand cool beneath your feet. karina stops just shy of the water, turning to face you.

“alright,” she says, holding out her hand. “let’s make this official.”

you laugh, taking her hand. “this is the most spontaneous fake wedding i’ve ever been a part of.”

her grin is wide, a little wild, like she’s already planning something outrageous. “just wait until our real wedding. then it’ll really be a show.”

the words hit you harder than expected—our real wedding. your mind flashes with an image: karina walking down the aisle, her dress swishing with every elegant step, her smile lighting up the whole room.

karina squeezes your hand gently, bringing you back to reality. "are you ready?"

you give her a tiny nod. “i’m ready.”

she turns to face you, her smile dimming just enough to make the moment feel serious. she takes a steadying breath before starting. “i vow to always share my fries with you—even the crispy ones.”

you grin. "i vow to not get jealous when you share your fries with someone else."

"that's a fair point." she pauses for a moment, glancing at the moon overhead. when she speaks again, her voice is softer. "i vow to not forget about all the nights we've stayed up talking, the sun just starting to rise, and how i could listen to your voice forever. and i vow to always be someone you can count on, no matter what."

her words make your heart ache. you swallow, trying to push down the feeling. "i vow to never give up, even when things get tough. even when everything's changing around us. and i vow to always be a place you can run to."

the words hang between you for a moment, and you feel like the whole world has stopped. everything feels surreal, like a dream, the kind you're afraid of waking up from. then she steps closer, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her. her next words are softer, more serious, the playfulness stripped away. “do you vow to take me to the best burger joints at midnight?”

your voice is quieter now too. “i do.”

“do you vow to share your fries with me, even the crispy ones?”

“i do.”

she takes a small, shaky breath, her gaze locked on yours. “and do you vow to always be my friend? to stand by me, even when things get hard or messy?”

your throat tightens, but somehow you manage to speak. “i do.”

karina’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile fully. there's something vulnerable in her expression, like she's revealing a piece of herself she's never shown before. "do you promise to always remember tonight? how special this moment is?"

"i do."

she nods, her eyes shining. "good. because i do, too."

her gaze drops to your lips, and you realize what she's doing a second too late. before you can even process what's happening, her mouth is on yours, warm and soft and sweet. it's the kind of kiss you feel all the way down to your toes, the kind that makes the rest of the world disappear.

it's everything and nothing all at once.

then the moment passes, and she's pulling away, a little breathless. "i'm sorry. i just…"

you blink, trying to find the right words, but nothing comes out.

she swallows, then steps back, her cheeks flushed. "i'm sorry, i don't know what came over me. that was stupid. we should go."

she turns and walks off, her footsteps echoing through the darkness. you watch her leave, not daring to say anything, because if you speak, you'll break the spell. you'll wake up from this dream, and it'll all be gone, and this moment will be lost forever.

karina speedwalks to your car, her ears hot and her head spinning. what the hell did i just do? she opens the car door and climbs in, her body feeling weightless. the kiss was an impulse, a split-second decision, and now she's left wondering why the hell she thought it was a good idea.

you get in the car a moment later, your expression unreadable. you're silent for a few beats, then you clear your throat. "here take my jacket," you say, reaching over to drape it around her shoulders. "you look cold."

her chest tightens. of course, you're being kind and sweet. god, why did she have to ruin the moment?

she takes the jacket, but it does nothing to warm the chill that's seeped into her bones. she's so confused. one minute, she's getting engaged, and the next, she's kissing you, the one person who's never given her a reason to doubt. she feels like she's falling apart, piece by piece.

"let's get you home," you say quietly, starting the car.

karina nods, her eyes focused on the window. the rest of the ride is silent, neither of you daring to say a word.

a month passed since that night—the kiss that left you spinning and karina’s unexpected confession. you’d both fallen into a strange rhythm after that. conversations were shorter, more careful, as if the words had to be handled with gloves. and though things seemed okay on the surface, there was a distance that neither of you knew how to bridge.

she was still okay with the greenhouse. you’d finalized every last detail together, but it felt like neither of you were talking about what really mattered. instead, you both threw yourselves into the wedding planning like it was the only way to keep moving forward.

it was just after midnight when you found yourself back in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. it had been a long day, and your mind was still racing. you stood there for a while, sipping slowly, mind wandering.

the front door creaked open. your brother stumbled in, his suit rumpled, tie hanging loosely around his neck. his eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of whiskey and something faintly floral—perfume. you could guess what had happened.

“company celebration,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “big news… big, big news.”

you wrapped an arm around him and helped him upstairs. he leaned on you heavily, his usually confident demeanor dulled by the alcohol. when you sat him down on the edge of your bed, you noticed it—lipstick stains on the collar of his shirt, faint but undeniable.

your stomach twisted. you swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down. it was none of your business. after all, she cheated as well...with you.

after he passed out, you quietly shut the door and went back downstairs. there was no sleep to be found, not when your thoughts were tangled in the events of what's happened over the past three months—the kiss, karina’s sudden agreement to the greenhouse wedding, the lipstick stains. it was too much.

you sat at the dining room table and pulled out your laptop. the wedding planning documents filled the screen, emails flooding in with suggestions and changes. you worked mindlessly, letting the repetition of it all keep your thoughts at bay.

the hours bled into one another, and before you knew it, pale sunlight was breaking through the windows. your eyes burned, your muscles ached, but you couldn’t stop.

footsteps behind you made you freeze.

karina.

her hair was a mess of loose waves, and she wore one of those oversized pajama shirts she loved. she had two mugs of coffee in hand, the familiar scent of hazelnut filling the room. without a word, she placed one in front of you.

“you’ve been up all night,” she said quietly.

“i had things to do,” you answered, not meeting her eyes.

karina sighed, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and the tension in your shoulders. “you’re burning yourself out.”

when you didn’t say anything, she walked around the table and stood behind you. her hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing gently into the knots there. she massaged in slow circles, her thumbs working out the tightness you hadn’t even noticed.

her voice was soft as she spoke, barely more than a whisper. "you should get some sleep. you can't keep doing this."

but you were too tired, too worn down, to respond. you couldn’t focus on anything other than the feeling of her hands on your shoulders, the warmth of her touch sinking into your skin.

she leaned down, her breath tickling your ear. "can we talk?"

"yeah," you managed.

karina let go and moved to the seat across from you. she looked like she was struggling with something, the same look from the night at the beach, when she had asked you to promise her to remember. her fingers tapped on the mug. you could tell she was stalling, trying to decide what to say, but eventually, the words came.

"i'm sorry."

you were sorry too. for so many things, but you didn't say them out loud. instead, you just nodded.

"i never meant for this to happen," she said. "but it's all getting a little too much."

you were exhausted. tired of everything—the wedding, the kiss, the feelings. tired of being the planner. tired of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.

karina's gaze dropped to her hands, her voice small. "i didn't mean to make things weird between us. i just didn't know what to do."

"it's okay," you replied, because it was all you could say.

"it's not," she insisted. "you're my best friend. i don't want to lose that."

she was right. you were her best friend. she was supposed to be marrying your brother, not making out with you at midnight. the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

"we'll get through this. together." you tried to sound convincing, but it fell flat.

"will we?" her voice was barely audible. "you've been pushing me away for weeks. i can tell."

you shook your head, but it was pointless. the truth was staring you in the face, and it wasn't pretty.

karina sighed, her gaze lifting from the table to meet yours. "i'm sorry. i don't want things to be awkward between us. i don't want this to change things."

her eyes were filled with such honesty and vulnerability, it made your chest ache. you wanted to reach out, hold her, and reassure her that everything was going to be okay, but you couldn't. you couldn't bring yourself to lie.

you rubbed your hands over your face, trying to ease the tension building behind your eyes. the words were stuck, clawing at your throat, desperate to escape. but what could you say?everything was so tangled.

“i’m not pushing you away,” you finally managed, though it felt hollow. “i just… don’t know how to handle all this.”

she gave you a weak smile, but her eyes were still sad.

the silence stretched between you, growing heavier with each passing moment. neither of you knew what to say.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” she said suddenly, her voice trembling.

your stomach twisted, and you had to look away. “you’re not hurting me.”

it was a lie, and you both knew it. but what good would the truth do?

karina sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. she looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept in days. maybe she hadn’t. “i just want us to be okay. like before.”

“before,” you repeated, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. before everything. before the kiss. before you saw your brother stumble in last night, lipstick stains betrayed his lies.

she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "yeah, before. like we promised in our vows."

you let out a breath. was she really bringing this up now? "our fake vows."

karina flinched, as if your words had physically struck her. she looked at you, her eyes pleading. "you promised to always remember that night. that's not nothing."

you closed your eyes, trying to block out the memory. it was a mistake. a stupid, impulsive decision. one you shouldn't have made. one you shouldn't be thinking about.

"look, it's fine. we'll just forget it ever happened. like we're supposed to."

"are we?"

you stared at her, your throat tightening. "yes. because that's what's best. for everyone."

she swallowed, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. "okay. if that's what you want."

"it is." the words were heavy, weighing on your chest, crushing the air from your lungs.

"alright. then i guess we should go back to planning."

she forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. the conversation was over.

and that was it. you tried not to think about the kiss or the way her hand had felt in yours. but the memories lingered, refusing to let go.

the day of the wedding arrived. you stood at the back of the greenhouse, feeling out of place as the carefully chosen flowers, delicate white drapes, and twinkling fairy lights filled the space with a sense of serenity that felt foreign to you. everything about this moment was supposed to be beautiful, perfect, just as your brother had imagined. but you couldn’t shake the unease that knotted in your stomach.

the ceremony was supposed to feel like a celebration, a milestone in their lives. but it wasn’t. the sight of your brother, standing at the altar with the priest, waiting for karina, made something inside you tighten. he was smiling, his hands clasped together in anticipation. but the thought of him with her—knowing everything that had happened between the two of you—suddenly felt wrong. not to mention what he did himself.

and then, she appeared.

karina entered, her arm linked with your father’s, walking down the aisle with the grace of someone who belonged in a dream. the flowing ivory gown clung to her figure in a way that made your breath catch. the soft music playing in the background seemed to fade as you watched her approach, unable to tear your eyes away.

her gaze flickered to you for the briefest of moments. it was only a glance, but it held so much. the quiet acknowledgment that things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. that this wasn’t how it was supposed to feel.

you could barely breathe. you had promised to be strong, to be there for her. but seeing her like this, walking down the aisle toward your brother, was impossible. all the promises you had made, all the words you had told her in the days leading up to this, suddenly felt so hollow. she wasn’t yours. she never had been, and yet, everything inside you screamed that she should be.

you couldn’t stay.

without thinking, you turned and quietly slipped out of the greenhouse, avoiding the curious glances of your family. the sounds of the ceremony, the murmurs of the guests, faded as you walked, faster and faster, until you were outside, out of the view of the guests, heading straight for the beach.

the water was cool, the sand soft beneath your feet, the gentle breeze soothing. but it wasn't enough. you could still feel the ache in your chest, the heaviness that had settled there the moment you saw karina walking down the aisle.

you had been so certain that you could do this, that you could keep your promise and be there for her, no matter what. but now, standing on the beach, the waves washing over your feet, you realize how foolish it had been to think that.

you sank to the sand, burying your face in your hands. how had things gotten this far? how had everything become so tangled, so complicated, so fast? and why did it feel like your heart was being torn in two?

you were torn in so many directions, your mind spinning with thoughts of karina, of the kiss, of your brother, and of everything that had led to this moment. you wanted to scream, to let the confusion and frustration pour out of you, but you couldn’t. you couldn’t make sense of it all.

everything felt like it was unraveling, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. the hurt, the guilt, the love that you couldn’t seem to let go of—it all washed over you, suffocating you. you loved her. you had always loved her, but it was wrong. she was marrying your brother. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you weren’t supposed to be the one to feel this way.

but the feeling was there, as real as the sand beneath your feet and the wind against your skin. you couldn't deny it, no matter how hard you tried.

"y/n."

your heart skipped a beat. you looked up, and there she was, standing at the edge of the sand. karina, still in her wedding dress, the fabric flowing around her as she stepped toward you, barefoot.

"y/n," she repeated, her voice soft, almost pleading.

you were frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. your throat tightened; the words stuck.

“what are you doing here?” you managed to ask, your voice wavering.

“i couldn’t let you go,” she said, her voice breathless. “i can’t let you walk away from me. not like this.”

you stood up, unsure of what to say, but before you could form any words, karina was running toward you, her wedding dress trailing behind her. she didn’t stop until she was right in front of you, her hands trembling as she reached for yours.

"i can’t marry him," she whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "not when i feel like this. not when it’s you i want."

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. your mind raced. "karina, this isn’t—"

"i don’t care," she interrupted. "i can’t pretend anymore. i’m sorry. i should’ve told you sooner. i should’ve never let you go, even when i knew how wrong it was. but i can’t marry him when i’m in love with you."

you blinked, staring at her. in love with you. she was in love with you. the words echoed in your head, and you couldn't find the strength to speak.

"y/n, please. say something."

karina’s face crumpled, and she stepped closer, her hands trembling as she cupped your face. “please,” she whispered, “don’t let me lose you. you're everything i want."

her touch was warm, and you couldn't help but lean into it. she was so close, and you could feel her heartbeat, her breathing, her warmth. it was intoxicating, and before you knew what you were doing, your lips met hers, gentle and tender, as if she was afraid of breaking you.

but you couldn't break. not when she was kissing you like this. not when her lips were so soft, and her arms were around your waist, pulling you closer. it felt like the world was shifting, the ground giving way beneath your feet. but she was there, holding onto you, her grip tight and desperate, like she was afraid of losing you.

the kiss deepened, and everything else fell away. all you could feel was her. all you could think about was how right it felt, how perfect it was, and how this was the moment you had been waiting for. you were home, in her arms, and nothing else mattered.

the kiss broke, and karina pulled back, her breathing ragged. her eyes were bright, full of emotion, and you knew yours were the same.

"i love you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "i love you, and i'm sorry i didn't realize it sooner."

the words washed over you, and for the first time, everything felt right.

"i love you too," you breathed, not caring that it was wrong or that you shouldn't be saying it. you couldn't stop yourself, and the feeling of finally letting the words out was overwhelming. "you're everything i want…and more."

her eyes widened, and then a smile tugged at her lips, wide and bright, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. she kissed you again, fierce and passionate, and you could feel her joy, her relief, her love. it was the kind of kiss that made your heart swell, that made you feel like you were floating, and nothing could ever come between you.

"i'm yours," she whispered against your lips, her voice breaking. "i'll always be yours."

[studioeisa]

still keeping up with you 🎤 vernon x reader.

he knows you’re not doing well with the distance, knows you’d rather have all of him or none of him than whatever this is. ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 sabay, never the strangers

word count: 1.6k · includes: angst, hurt/comfort, they are on a break!!!, actually so very sad and tender. owch

The weekend starts like a poorly worded Reddit post. 

You know the type. The ones where there’s an obvious answer to the question being posed. The situations that have you sighing in exasperation, because you cannot fathom how somebody could ever get themselves into a bind like this. 

AITA for still taking my ex-boyfriend to my sister’s wedding because I didn’t want to go back on our RSVP? 

Vernon doesn’t like that—the term ‘ex-boyfriend’. Time and time again, he’s reminded you that it’s not a breakup. It’s a break. A cool off with a looming deadline, one where the two of you are supposed to reconvene and figure out if this is still something you want to figure out. Like a fucking merger. 

He can call it whatever he wants, but it doesn’t take away the fact that his side of the bed feels colder with his absence, that the yoghurt you got him is well past its expiration date, that you find yourself waiting for him to come up in conversation just so you could say something. 

Not anything bad, not any sort of passage of blame. God, no. You just want to be able to say something like That’s Vernon’s favorite or Vernon said something like that once. A thinly veiled reminder that you still know him, even if he no longer sends you dozens of TikToks in the middle of the night. 

You still know Vernon. You know he’ll forget his antihistamines even though the wedding reception is a warzone for his allergies. You know he’ll ask for a mint at some point in the day, probably halfway through the mass. And so you bring your pocket First-Aid Kit, and you keep the tin of Mentos in your purse, because to love someone is to anticipate, to preempt, to know.

“I told you to bring a sweater.” 

Vernon’s dry voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You shoot him a heatless glare, pulling his suit jacket a little tighter around your shoulders. The reception is in full swing—tuxedoed children hurtling in between the tables, tipsy aunties trading secrets behind cupped hands, fairy lights acting as dupes against the starless sky. 

“And I told you,” you shoot back, “that it doesn’t fit in my purse.” 

Vernon shifts in the seat beside you. He has a wry sort of smile on his face, because this is precisely the kind of petty argument you’ve had time and time again. It often ends with Vernon swaddling you in whatever hoodie he’d worn for the express purpose of loaning it to you later on. 

“You’re going to freeze to death one of these days,” he jabs. 

You want to say, Not when you’re around, but you bite the words back in favor of burrowing a little more into his coat. He doesn’t press, doesn’t comment on the flicker of an expression that passes over your face. Vernon had always been a better person than you when it came to things like this. 

The reception unspools around the two of you like a film reel. Everything had been picture perfect today. The ceremony. The speeches. Your sister’s first dance with her now-husband.

Vernon played his part well. You hadn’t told your family yet that you were on a break. Hell, you thought this winter period would be over before the wedding. Vernon didn’t fault you when you had to sheepishly admit the truth to him. Just raised an eyebrow and asked if you knew where he could rent a suit.

He did everything expected of him. Kept a hand at the small of your back throughout the night. Smiled politely while fielding questions about marriage plans. Called you ‘babe’, looked at you like he still loved you. 

He still loves you. He does. 

That’s what he said, anyway, when he brought this whole arrangement up. He just—needed some time apart, needed space to breathe. To be. 

Vernon nudges your side with his elbow. “I can hear you thinking,” he teases, though not unkindly. 

Your lips purse in a tight smile. “What’s on my mind, then?” 

He looks at you like he knows. Of course he knows. He knows you’re not doing well with the distance, knows you’d rather have all of him or none of him than whatever this is. 

He spares you, though, and instead says, “You’re thinking about getting McDonald’s after this.” 

A weak laugh escapes you. “A single black coffee,” you say. 

“And absolutely nothing else,” Vernon adds. It’s an inside joke, one that needs no explanation. 

You’re forgiven for not wanting to divulge to the rest of us. Some things are too intimate to be shared, to be said out loud and made real. 

Like how a piano rendition of that song strikes up. You know the one. The track that reminds you of endless roads, of Friday evenings and Sunday mornings. It fills the spaces of your drives and reminds you of what it means to be alive. 

You sit up a little straighter. Vernon notices. 

“Your favorite,” he hums. 

“Favorite is debatable.” Your response is more technical than anything. You don’t want to definitively call anything your favorite, not when there’s a whole world of choices for you to still make someday. You haven’t gotten to know all of the things that you could love yet. 

Vernon rolls his eyes. And maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s that moment of something so familiar, so fond, that gives you just the right amount of courage to ask, “Dance with me?” 

A beat. One that sits low, twists a bit, has damage in it. 

The affection on Vernon’s face has crumpled into something closer to pity. You hate it. You want to hate him. He says your name all careful and quiet like, fracturing your heart that’s already cracked in all the places that matters. 

“Nevermind,” you say. Too fast. Like you’re trying to get the words out before you can sob. “That was stupid. We—it’s not like we dance, anyway.” 

Not in public, at least. The two of you waltz in kitchens during midnight, shimmy down empty grocery aisles, hold mini-concerts in shared showers. You’re both terrible at it, but at least you were terrible together. Now, you can’t even have that. Instead—

“Okay.” 

Vernon’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s firm. Unwavering. The pity on his expression is gone, replaced by the certainty of a man who believes in certain truths. 

You open your mouth to protest, to deny him of giving you this consolation prize. But the reality is that you’ll take what you can get. You take his hand as he holds it out to you. You double back to leave his suit jacket on the back of your chair. You wobble a bit as your heels hit the ground, and Vernon holds you steady. 

Nobody bats an eye when you and Vernon hit the dance floor. Some of the other guests make room, even, shooting the two of you looks full of goodwill and well wishes. You can imagine what they’re thinking, what they’re wanting. For the next wedding to be yours. 

You bury the thought behind the feeling of Vernon resting his hands at your waist. You wind your own arms around his shoulders, taking the excuse to press against him in the way that you’ve missed. You haven’t held him like this in what feels like weeks, and it’s a touch so comforting you think you could sob. 

“Think you can keep up?” he jokes. 

Despite yourself, you smile. “You know I will.” 

You don’t. 

You try. But you’ve got no sense of rhythm, and Vernon is twice as bad. You step over each other’s feet. He steers you into another couple; you lean a little too close and bump foreheads. The entire while, you try not to giggle, but when you hear the pffft of his own restrained laughter, you let the joy break from the back of your throat. 

It crawls out, spills into the space between you, lightens the weight on both your shoulders. You aren’t somebody who declares favorites, but this—this has to be your favorite part of the night. 

You keep flailing even when the song changes into one you don’t know. Even when it slows into something treacherous, something that demands heart. Your sister and her husband join the crowd of dancers; she throws you a wink, and you force yourself to smile as your hands tighten at the back of Vernon’s shirt. 

“Do you want to sit back down?” he asks delicately. 

No, you want to say. I want to dance with you forever. I’ll let you step on my toes and I’ll snap my ankles a thousand times over if it means having you here, with me. 

Instead of saying all that, you throw the question back. “Do you?” 

Vernon doesn’t miss a beat. “No,” he says, hands sliding down to your hips. “I like it here.” 

Plain and simple. I like it here. Here, being this wedding. Here, being your arms. Here, being with you. 

Here, as he pulls you to his chest and presses his lips to the top of your head, like he never left at all. 

Vernon has never lied to you. And so you want to believe him. You have to believe him when he tells you this break is not something final. Not a period that ends things.

A comma, maybe,

for a story that will go on, and on, and on—

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ⸻ i doubt i’m going to do this for all of the songs/fics, but this is one of my all-time favorite songs (for my very first svt bias), so i wanted to provide a translation for sabay. enjoy. ‹𝟹

I need some time To breathe In case I don’t reach you And you’re gone before I get there

Even if our feet fall differently I’ll still keep up with you

Dizzy from all this spinning With no one to lean on You’re the one who can stop This body of mine 

Even if our steps don’t match I’ll still keep up with you 

It doesn’t matter if we trip or go sideways I’ll still keep up with you 

It’s hard to stay above water When the current sweeps you up I can’t forget Can’t get away from you From you 

[gardens-light]

Opposites Attract

Unlike his friend, D16 often kept his head down and followed protocol. Going through his usual routine one cycle after another, only stepping out of his normality whenever Orion Pax needed to be pulled out of trouble. Yet... he'd be lying, if he ever said his optics never occasionally drifted towards the one thing he's wanted. You. The High Guard that had stolen his spark, who's beauty could only be compared to the sparkling towers of Iacon. Something he could never touch and never to keep. For he accepted the fact you both were from different worlds. Something that not even one of the 'great plans' of Orion Pax could change... right...?

Content: D16/Megatron TFO x F/Cybertronian Reader. Fluff.

Toiling away under the flickering lights and constant hum of machinery. The cavernous walls of the mine glittered with the veins of energon, their iridescent glow faintly illuminating the surroundings.

As the others grinded away at the seams of energon, Orion Pax's gaze flickered up at D16, noticing the distracted expression upon his faceplate.

"Hey D. You ok?"

Startled and snapping out of his daze, D16 briefly looked over his shoulder. "Huh? Oh- yeah, yeah. I'm fine." he replied dismissively, casually returning his blank gaze back to the task at hand.

"You know I've got your back. Right...?"

"I know, I know you do, Orion. It's just... it's nothing. Really."

Orion lowered his tools, placing a hand on D16's shoulder as his movements became a bit more forceful, as if he was trying to take out his frustration on the cave walls.

Stiffening under his friend's touch, finally taking a moment of pause as he met Orion's concerned gaze.

"It's just... it's stupid. I honestly don't know why I'm even bothered by it." A heavy sigh escaped D16's lips, dropping his tools and leaning against the rocky wall behind him. "I... bumped into someone this morning before shift. It was a little thing really, but the simple shock of it... the shock of realizing who it was... I-I've never seen her in person before, only from the holos, but... Primus, Orion. She was... perfect!"

"Don't give me that look." He groaned, seeing the faint smile tugging on Orion's faceplate. "It's not like I have a chance with her. There's no universe where she'd be slightest bit of interested in some lowly mech like me-"

"C'mon D... don't be like that-"

"Why shouldn't I? It's the truth and you know it." D16 pushed himself off the wall and resumed his work. Wielding his tools with more force than necessary. The sharp ringing of metal against stone echoed throughout the cavern.

"Because there's gotta be more to life than just... this!" Orion protested, gesturing to their surroundings. "Don't you want to try and be more than what we're 'supposed' to be?-"

"What else are we supposed to be, then?!" D16 scowled, swinging his tool once more, causing a shower of sparks to fly up. The glow of the energon-flecked rock reflected off the planes of his face, casting deep shadows under his optics. For a brief moment, the harsh environment seemed to aged his otherwise youthful features. "We're miners! Built for this! Just because you have grand dreams and aspirations, doesn't mean the rest of us do!"

Orion flinched, pausing for moment before finding his voice again. "You're... not seriously gonna just admire this femme from afar...? I-I've seen the way you look at her. You adore her!-"

"It doesn't matter, Orion. She's far beyond me. I'm... just a simple miner, and she's a High Guard. There's no point in even entertaining the thought that I could ever... be with her."

"Why not? Who says you couldn't? You're just as good as any mech!-"

"Oh yeah! I'm sure she'd be enthralled by my rugged charm and the coal dust that's constantly clinging to my frame!" D16 bitterly laughed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I bet she'd swoon over the grease stains on my servos. And of course, the highlight! My endless stories of energon extraction- it just gets the femmes going every time! Clearly!"

Grinding away at the cavern wall, using the repetitive motion of his tools against the stone to distract him from the thoughts spinning through his processor. The dull ache in D16's servos felt like a welcomed relief compared to the turmoil in his spark. A small thorn of guilt pricked at his circuits, as he caught Orion's somber expression within the corner of his optic.

Both fell into a tense silence, the only sound of steady rhythmic clang of metal on stone dragging out till the end of their long shift.

---

Eventually the twelfth hour came to an end, D16 and Orion headed to the nearest exit along with their fellow miners. Grimy from the day's work, their servos stained and joins sore from exertion. D16 stretches lazily, trying to work out the kinks in his wiring, rolling his neck and shoulders as he walked beside Orion.

Raising an optic ridge, following his friend's gaze. D16's spark practically stutters when he spots you not far in the distance. A sweet smile framing your lips, as you spoke to another High Guard, your polished form standing out against the dingy backdrop of the mining station. D16's spark pulsed within it's chamber, sending zaps of electricity throughout his circuits, as if you're a magnet drawing him in. As you turned away from your fellow High Guard, the silver miner quickly avoided eye contact, secretly hoping you didn't notice him as he stared at the floor.

Hiding his mischievous smile, Orion slowed his pace a little. His gaze stubley peering up at you every so often, as the gap between you and his friend gradually closes. Secretly positioning himself slightly behind you, Orion quickly pushed you into D16.

His optics widen as you came crashing down on top of him, your sudden weight causing him to lose balance and fall onto his back with a surprised 'oof.'

"H-Hey! Watch where you're..." oh... Primus...

Subtle warmth slowly raised beneath his faceplates, as passers by raised an optic ridge at your... rather compromising position. Your tall yet slender frame caging D16 beneath you, while his servos hovered awkwardly above your waist.

"Ow..."

A jolt of electricity shot through him, a gasp slipping past his lips as your weight shifted onto his legs, straddling his lap. His servos itched towards your thighs, his amber optics watching the grime and dirt rub off onto your otherwise flawless paintwork. Quickly glancing up at you with an apologetic expression, as your optics flickered open.

"By the AllSpark! Are you ok?" your melody tone was filled with concern, as your soft gaze met his. "I-I honestly don't know what happened."

Taking a moment to collect himself, D16's servos involuntary slowly slid up and down your thighs. "I'm... I'm fine. No harm done... are you alright?"

A subtle heat rose to your faceplates, making them warm to the touch, as your optics flickered down at your thighs. Feeling the miner's calloused servos subconsciously caress your sooth metal.

Following your shy gaze, embarrassment flushed across D16's features. Quickly pulling his servos away and scrambling to sit up properly, his chassis brushing against yours. His optics nervously darting around, attempting to avoid your gaze while his spark wildly pulsed within its chamber.

Both raising onto your peds, and after a brief moment of hesitation. The miner's gaze slowly trailed up your form, as you brushed off the coal dust and grime.

"Primus... s-sorry about that." A pang of guilt struck his inner-circuits, while D16 fussed over you. His spark skipping a beat as you gave him a sweet smile. The warmth of your body made his processor go all fuzzy, not being able to string a single thought.

"Thank you-"

"D! There you are! I've been looking for you." Orion's cheerful voice interrupted. Pulling his usual warm smile, ignoring his friend's annoyed glare as Orion wrapped an arm around D16's shoulders. "Please forgive my clumsy friend, ma'am. If you'll allow it, he'd would like to properly apologize for this whole inconvenience. Perhaps over some energon? His treat, of course."

What?! D16's optics widened, as his glare narrowed onto his friend. For sparks sake, Orion! Now isn't the time to conjure up one of your 'master plans!'

You held up your servos. "Oh... that's very sweet. But he doesn't-"

"Nonsense. He insists. Right, buddy?"

Not wanting to bring anymore attention, than Orion already did. D16 slowly nodded, as an irritated huff escaped him.

His optics flickered towards you, as your sweet chuckles came to his audio receivers. Clearly finding somewhat some form of amusement, as the miner obviously looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Very well... if he insists. U-Um... when?"

"How about this evening?" Orion's smile widened, clapping a hand upon D16's shoulder, who subtly cringed under his friend's touch. "D knows a great energon bar down the way, The Cranked Gear. Very laid-back atmosphere, perfect for a casual... meeting."

The warmth beneath D16's plates rose, as he caught a glimpse of your sweet smile. Your soft gaze roaming over his frame, "sounds great. See you later... D."

"What. The. Fragg was that?!" the silver miner snapped once you were out of earshot. A mixture of disbelief and frustration etched into his faceplates, "you set me up!"

"Hey... I was just trying to help." Orion held up his servos in surrender. "Plus, it proves you have a chance with her-"

"Are you kidding me? There's no chance!" D16 threw his servos up in exasperation, his inner-circuits coiling with tension. "She's a High Guard. I'm a cogless miner-bot. We're practically from different worlds! What am I supposed to do? Just sit there and make a fool of myself?"

A weak smile came to Orion, shrugging as he tried to give D16 some form of reassurance. "From... what I've heard. You kinda just... sit there and talk when you're on a date."

"Gee, thanks for the helpful advice." D16 frowned, his tone dripping in sarcasm. "I'll just sit there and chat about the weather and my thrilling work in energon extraction." A low groan escaped his lips, while pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know why or how I let you talk me into things, y'know..." This is gonna be a disaster.

Later That Evening

Rocking upon his heels, shifting nervously from pede to pede. A subtle hopeful expression etched upon his features, as D16 glanced around for you.

No sign of her yet...

Taking a deep breath, trying to steady his spark and nerves. While his processor ran through potential conversation topics, attempting to prepare something interesting to say. A sigh escaping his lips, as D16 looked down at himself, suddenly hyper-aware of his frame. His rough, dull plating starkly stood out against the sleek finish of the other mechs in the vicinity.

Hopefully... she's not too put off by my rough exterior-

"Good evening... hopefully you haven't been waiting long."

Your soft tone snapped him out of his thoughts, his wide eyed stare roaming over your newly polished figure. "No! Uh, I mean... no. I just got here... you look..."

"What...?" you quickly looked down at yourself. Examining particular spots over your frame, "do I still have coal dust on me or something?"

"No! No! You look good. Great, even. Better than great!" fragging idiot. "Um... shall we...?"

Giving him a brief smile, you followed D16's lead into the bar. Sunken ceiling lights lit the area with a warm, gentle hue. The atmosphere bustling with chatter and laughter. Making your way through the clutter of tables and chairs, D16 could practically feel the surprised and confused expressions of the patrons, as they took in your presence.

He knew that the pair of you must make quite the duo, a miner and a High Guard. While guiding the way through the bar, his optics narrowed onto the nearest bots, silently daring them to say something. Leading you to a more secluded booth in the far corner, the lights became slightly more dim, creating more intimate feel. While the patrons chatter reduced to lulled muffle.

Your smile slightly widened, as D16 pulled out a seat for you. Politely waiting til you were settled before taking a seat opposite you.

"So... uh... how was your day?" his voice was uncharacteristically low, while his digits anxiously fidgeted wit the edge of the table. Seriously? That's the best you can come up with? Come on!

"Um... alright. Nothing out of the ordinary."

The awkward tension slowly eased into the space between you, as D16's processor scrambled for a new topic.

"That's good... My shift down in the mines was pretty normal. Just the... usual amount of ore. No issues with the equipment- well, one drill malfunctioned. But we fixed it quick enough."

D16's spark nervously pulsed through his wires, as you flashed him a weak smile. Replying with a simple nod, "oh... um, sounds... eventful? Would you... like to order some energon?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. I, uh, should probably warn you though. The stuff they serve here isn't exactly the most refined. It's... got a kind of a bite to it."

After answering with shrug, D16 took the cue to approach the nearby bar. The bartender passed him the drinks with a knowing glance, only to be greeted with the miner's glare in return. Knowing full well that the whole bar was undoubtedly watching him, make his way back to you.

Settling himself back into his seat, carefully sliding your drink towards you. As he took a sip from his own, the smooth taste a momentary distraction from the awkward tension.

Noticing your half-hearted smile, a pang of guilt thumped within his spark. This a complete fragging diseater! Why can't I say anything? I can practically feel this whole thing already crashing and burning in front of me!-

"What's... that on your shoulder?"

"Huh?" D16 followed your gaze, briefly noticing you pausing from your drink. A subtle warmth radiated beneath his faceplates as embarrassment swept through his frame. "Oh, uh, that's just... a sticker. My friend, Orion put it there a while ago, and I... forgot to remove it-"

"Oh no. Don't remove it." The tone of your voice peaked a little, as your gaze softened. Admiring the sticker's holographic shine. "It looks good on you. You should see my stasis pod in my private quarters."

A shy smile lit up his features, as D16's spark fluttered within it's chamber. "Y-You... you think so? I, uh... I appreciate that. And... what's on your stasis pod?"

"My favorite, Solus Prime. But I promise it's only a small sticker."

"Ah, a Solus fan, eh?" a small chuckle escaped his lips. Optics shining with a glimmer of amusement. "Not too shabby. Can't blame you, she was a badass warrior. And... only a small sticker, you say?"

Holding up your servo, almost pinching the air between your thumb and index digit. "This small. Nothing too crazy."

"Oh, phew." A light laugh escaped his lips, as D16 mockly wiped an invisible bead of condensation upon his forehelm. "I was worried you had her face on a full sized wall mural. But just a little sticker? That's much more reasonable."

Your sweet chuckles rung through the air between the pair of you, like a sweet melody. Lifting the awkwardness that lingered before, finally giving him the chance to actually feel connected with you.

Feeling a bit more emboldened, D16 continued. "Seriously. Solus is a solid choice. But I'd have to go with Megatronus, personally."

Raising an optic ridge, while tilting your helm to the side. "What draws to you him?"

Leaning back in his seat, a look of admiration sparkled within his optics. "Well, apart from being the most fearsome warrior in Cybertron's history. He was also a brilliant strategist! He could take on any opponent and come out on top! Plus, he's just... so incredibly powerful. Unstoppable really! I guess I've... always looked up to him for that kind of strength."

A small smile teased the corner of your lips, trying to hide it behind your cup. "That's very true. I gotta admit that he's a total badass."

"Oh. He's definitely a badass! I remember reading tales about his battles against the Quintessons, and let me tell you. They're the stuff of legend! He could take on an entire army by himself and come out with nothing but a scratch."

"Careful." Your teasing tone purred. "Your fanboy is showing."

The warmth beneath his faceplates grow even more, as embarrassment crept back into his frame. Clearing his vocal processor, attempting to return to his usual demeanor while his spark skipped a beat. "What? I'm just stating facts."

Taking the last sip from your drink, your soft gaze trailed down his chassis. D16 subconsciously shifts his body, covering his cogless chamber. His spark pulsing more, avoiding your gaze while taking another mouthful of his drink.

A lull ache pulsed throughout your frame, guilt jabbing your at your spark. "Forgive me... I-I shouldn't have starred-"

"It's... It's fine." The lull ache within you begun to painfully prick at your spark, as D16's words held a more rougher edge than he intended. "You were just curious. I don't blame you."

A subtle blanket of awkward silence slowly crept back into the air, as hesitation temporarily stole your words. A flicker of surprise flashed within D16's optics, as his soft gaze noticed your servo edging closer to him across the table. Breath almost got stuck in his vents as he met your optics, the colour shining with genuine curiosity and a hint of compassion.

The question swirling within your processor, softly escaped your lips in just above a whisper. "Can I...?"

Answering with a simple nod. D16 flinched slightly as you touched his cogless chamber, as if bracing himself for judgement or ridicule. Yet your expression remained soft, a hint of... affection? Flickering within your optics. As your digits gently traced the otter rim of his circular chamber, a strange sense of comfort washed over him. The gesture surprisingly tender, as he found himself relaxing under your touch.

"It's... It's a pretty pathetic sight... isn't it?"

Another prang of guilt pulsed throughout your inner-circuits, as you picked up the subtle shame hiding within D16's words. "What? No! No, of course not. Just... different..."

"Different? That's one way to put it." D16's tone held a bitter edge, while a scoff escaped him. "I mean... look at me. A cogless miner bot. I'm a pathetic excuse for a Cybertronian."

Great... Hanging his head low, a heavy sigh escaped him. Why did you steer the conversation in that direction? You idiot!-

Crunch!

Snap!

D16's optics widened as he witnessed you tear away a small section of your forearm. His puzzled gaze flickering to the soft smile upon your lips, your optics shining with kindness as an idea crossed your processor.

"Wait! What are you doing?-"

Your soft smile, sweetened as you leaned back in your seat. Purposely positioning yourself just out of his reach, while you worked on the scrap piece of metal. Only taking a few moments to flatten it, using the table's edge to smooth and round off the edges, before holding up the now makeshift disk for inspection.

"I... know it's not real." D16's spark fluttered within his chassis, as his wide optics met your loving gaze. His breath hitching as you reached across the table, placing the makeshift disk into his empty cog chamber. "But maybe... a part of me could be... your 'cog?'"

Staring down at the makeshift 'cog' which now rested in the chamber, a hopeful pulse beat through your inner circuits as your spark skipped.

For a moment, he couldn't find the words to express the swirling emotions within his spark. Surprise, gratitude, affection... They all crashed together in a wonderful mess.

"I-I... I don't know what to say. This is..." D16 slowly placed a servo over his cog chamber, feeling the shape of his new 'cog' inside.

The act itself wasn't just incredibly kind but... surprisingly intimate. The fact that you would willingly give up a part of yourself for him. To make him feel more... complete.

I-I... would never believed... never have imagined...

H-Have I... overstepped somehow? You nervously swallowed a lump in your vocal processor. Was it too much?

But the invisible tug upon the corners of his lips, was enough to slowly calm your racing spark. For he couldn't help but stare at you in quiet awe, as D16's processor still reel from your act. He gently reached a servo across the table, resting it atop your own. A silent gesture of gratitude and affection, while his optics met yours.

"Th-This... was unexpected- wonderful! Thoughtful! But just... unexpected..." he lowly spoke. "How could I ever thank you?"

"Well..." your sweet smile turned slightly flirty, as your thumb caressed D16's knuckles. "Maybe... you could demonstrate your strength to me? I... heard miners are strong."

D16's faceplates heats up at your flirtatious tone, a rush of nervous excitement tingles pulsed throughout his frame.

"O-Oh..." his amber optics glanced around the bar, making sure nobody was eavesdropping as he returned your smile. "And... how would you like me to demonstrate that? Perhaps somewhere more... private?"

Butterflies entangled your wires, as D16's servo took yours in a slightly tighter grip. "Where did you have in mind?"

His breath hitched a little, feeling you checking him out. The touch of your servo beneath his sent a shiver through his circuits. Gradual confidence filled his spark, as he leaned in a bit further, his voice dropping to a low, sultry tone. "I know a secluded spot not too far from here. It'll give us all the privacy we need for a... rigorous demonstration."

"Sounds perfect."

D16 gives you a sly smile, his frame buzzing with anticipation as you softly bit your bottom lip. Sliding out of the booth, his optics meeting yours. Extending a servo out to you, a silent offer to follow him. "This way gorgeous."

[dramagodesss]

fifteen : lights, camera, action!

playin' the players

rafe's phone

the bar is (obviously) empty due to the fact that it was four p.m. lisa's brother owned it and had let your team film during non- working hours.

you’re leaning against the side of a fake-brick wall, script in hand, trying not to overthink literally everything—your lines, your outfit, your co-star, your entire night with rafe.

the jeans are low-rise. like dangerously low-rise. your top? cropped. slouchy. perfect for the role. you look hot. and jj looks wrecked about it.

he’s wearing a white tank, chain glinting at his collarbone, cigarette (as a 'prop', eventhough everyone knows he'll probably smoke it when he gets the chance) tucked behind his ear. he looks like a problem you’ve already forgiven three times too many.

but today, you're two strangers that meet at a bar. it’s messy, electric, maybe a little too personal too fast. they fall. or start to.

the bar’s a perfect location. warm wood, sticky floors, dusty neon lights overhead. your friends are everywhere—sarah’s at the booth pretending to flirt with johnb. pope and kelce b are nursing fake beers in the back. lisa and shannon are behind the bar pretending to work, topper (attempting) to get shannon's attention. it's kinda working. kiara and Cary are talking, the last girl shyly giggling at your friends words. but no rafe.

why the fuck are you thinking about him??

jj sits beside you, script in hand but not reading it.

“you ready?” he asks, voice low, tone unreadable.

you glance at him, heart annoyingly present in your chest. suddenly, you remember how he came up to your room after litteraly flashing him with your tits. the way he devoured you with his lips afterwords.

fuck.

like you didn't have enough with rafe.

fucking blonde cunts.

“i should be asking you that. you good?”

he looks at you. really looks at you. eyes drop to your stomach, to the waistband of your jeans, to the exposed skin there. back up. he swallows.

“yeah,” he says. “just… surprised by the costume.”

you smirk.

“this? wardrobe said ‘sexy disaster,’ i delivered.”

he’s about to reply when liam calls out.

“places! scene one—first bar meet-cute. let’s go!”

you and jj slide into position at the bar. your cue: you’re nursing a drink, clearly annoyed, just broke up for like the hundreth time. his cue: he notices you. sits beside you. starts something he won’t be able to stop.

the lighting is a mix of orange and an ugly green. attraction and jealousy. a perfect match. at least that's what shannon said. and shannon was usually right.

and—action.

jj walks over. sits. turns to you.

“rough night?”

you sigh, stir your fake drink.

“something like that.”

he watches you for a beat. leans closer.

“you wanna make your ex jealous or something?”

you glance at him. slow. assessing.

“you offering?”

he grins.

“i could be.”

the camera rolls. the lights shifts a bit warmer. isaac slowly sways the camera on his shoulder. jj’s hand brushes yours on the bar.

“what’s your name?” he asks.

you hesitate.

“depends. you always this forward?”

“only when it works.”

you laugh, and it’s not acting. not really.

cut.

liam cheers.

“beautiful! let’s reset for the slow dance scene.”

you blink.

“the what now?”

yeah, you had forgotten about that scene.

jj smirks.

“told you this was a rom-com.”

you chuckle. minutes later you’re pulling down your top, adjusting your low-rise jeans, trying to shake off the nerves.

your hands freeze when the bar door swings open.

him.

rafe.

dark hoodie. jeans. a black baseball cap he probably thinks makes him look unbothered. he walks in like he owns the place — and he kinda does.

jj notices him too — you feel the tension snap through his shoulders like a rubber band.

“no fucking way,” he mutters under his breath.

“i invited him” you mutter, trying to sound breezy. you fail.

jj doesn’t say anything, but his jaw ticks.

out on the dance floor, kie’s already swaying with cary — arms loose around her shoulders, grinning. cary’s whispering something in kie’s ear and they’re both laughing.

and it’s soft. and it's gay. and it’s kind of beautiful.

you stare for a second, then the isaac’s voice cuts through.

“jj, y/n— center floor. you’re two strangers falling in love. let’s make it believable— oh! and don't forget about the kiss.”

you shoot jj a look. he offers his hand. you take it.

your fingers brush. his palm’s warm.

“you okay?” jj murmurs.

“depends. you gonna step on my foot again?”

“not if you stop looking at rafe like he’s about to crash the shoot.”

you scoff but he’s not wrong.

you’re in jj’s arms now, swaying slow to the beat. your hands loop around his shoulders, his rest just above your hips. it’s... weirdly easy. like your bodies already know the rhythm.

across the bar, rafe leans against the wall near props, arms crossed. he’s not even pretending not to watch.

you ignore the way your skin warms.

“this scene’s fake,” you whisper.

“doesn’t feel fake,” jj whispers back.

you glance up. he’s looking at your mouth. again.

and the cameras are rolling.

and rafe is watching.

and your heart is a traitor.

colors switch a bit. orange, a bit of green and the newest addition : red. which is, of course, for lust.

your arms are still around jj’s shoulders and his hands haven’t moved from your waist.

you’re both still swaying, your brain is not even paying attention to the music, the cameras still rolling.

your heart’s hammering.

because of him.

because of the both of them.

you glance up at jj.

he’s already looking at you.

and then— he leans in.

and kisses you.

soft. searching. like he’s been waiting. like he doesn’t care that the whole crew is standing ten feet away or that you’re technically acting.

it's on the script. of course he's kissing you.

and you kiss him back.

because that's also on the script.

not because you were dying to have a excuse to kiss him.

and for a second, there’s no rafe. no bet. no lies. no guilt.

just jj.

just this.

“cut!” liam yells, voice cracking. “cutcutcut! holy shit, that was good—ohmygod amazing!—but wait—where the fuck is sean?!”

he’s pacing in circles now, headset askew, clipboard flailing.

“his call time was five! five! isaac, did he confirm? did he text?!”

“i don’t know!” isaac calls, checking his phone again. “he said he was coming, i—he’s probably just late—”

“he’s two hours late! this is chaos! this is a disaster—we can’t shoot the jealousy scene without the ex! we literally cannot function without a-piece-of-shit ex!”

and just like that, someone steps forward.

slow. deliberate.

his cap’s turned backwards now, hoodie sleeves shoved up. he looks vaguely annoyed and vaguely gorgeous and it’s a problem.

“i’ll do it,” he says.

silence.

liam blinks.

“you’ll what?”

“i’ll play the ex.” his voice is calm. confident. just a little cocky. “what’s the scene? i show up, try to win her back? beg? be a dick?”

no please don't beg, i can't handle that.

you stare at him. your mouth parts slightly.

he doesn’t look at you.

liam looks like he might cry. from relief or fear, hard to say.

“i mean. you’re not even cast, but—sean’s a no-show, and you’re here—and fuck it, we’re losing time—yes. fine. yes. rafe, you’re the ex.”

jj stiffens beside you. his hands drop from your waist.

rafe finally glances your way.

his eyes are unreadable. his mouth — that tiny smirk he knows drives you insane.

“let’s make it believable.”

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1 @rafes-honey

[enderlovez]

can you write another kindergarten teacher!reader x spencer where he comes in as like a special guest to read to her students🥹 and then he stays to eat lunch with her

Story Time

Spencer Reid x Kindergarten Teacher Reader WORD COUNT: 1000+

Summary: Spencer comes and reads to your students for storytime.

Content Warning: Maybe some spelling errors, but otherwise nothing. I actually love writing kindergarten teacher reader x Spencer!!! It makes me feel all warm and happy inside

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The buzz of the classroom feels electric today, like a thousand tiny bees flitting through the air. Your students can hardly stay in their seats, their excitement nearly bubbling over as you explain that you'll be having a very special guest joining you for storytime today.

Of course, they don't know who it is yet. That's the surprise.

"Miss Y/N, is it a prince?" asks Lily, her shiny brown eyes wide and hopeful.

"Or a pirate?" chimes in Jacob, swinging around an imaginary sword.

You smile and shake your head. "Not quite. But he is one of my favorite people, and I think you're all going to love him, too."

As if on cue, there's a light knock on the rainbow-painted door. Your stomach flips as you walk over to open it.

Standing there, with his ever-disheveled hair and a stack of children's books in his arms, is Spencer.

He's wearing one of his signature mismatched outfits that always sort of remind you of something an old man would wear—a brown cardigan over a cream colored shirt—and the way his eyes light up when he sees you makes your cheeks flush a little.

"Hi," he says softly, like you're the only two people in the room.

"Hi," you whisper back, before stepping aside to let him in.

The kids immediately erupt into whispers and giggles. Spencer shifts awkwardly under their gaze, but he smiles warmly as I introduce him.

"Everyone, this is Doctor Reid. He's a very smart friend of mine who knows a lot about books, so I thought he'd be the perfect person to read to us today!"

Spencer waves shyly. "Hi, everyone. You can call me Spencer if you want."

Lily raises her hand without hesitation. "Are you Miss Y/N's boyfriend? Are you married? Do you have any babies?"

Spencer's eyes widen, and you feel your face go hot—really, this is something you should have anticipated.

"Lily!" you laugh nervously, twiddling your thumbs. "That's not a question for storytime."

She shrugs, unapologetic. Spencer, bless him, just clears his throat as adjusts his grip on the books.

"I bought a few options," he says, holding them up like they're treasure. "We have The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are, and The Day the Crayons Quit. Any favorites."

The room fills with an enthusiastic chorus of opinions, but Spencer handles it like a pro, tallying votes on the whiteboard until we have a winner: Where the Wild Things Are.

He settles into the big reading chair at the front of the room, his long legs awkwardly folded up beneath him, and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The kids gather on the carpet, leaning forward with rapt attention as he begins.

Spencer's voice is soft, each word carrying a rhythm that draws the kids—and you, despite the fact that you've already read this book countless times—into the story, though that might just be because you enjoy listening to his voice so much.

By the time he closes the book and sets it aside, the room erupts into cheers. "That was so cool!" Jacob shouts, jumping to his feet.

"Can you read another one?" Lily pleads, clasping her hands together and mustering up the best puppy eyes she can—she doesn't have to try very hard.

Five year olds. So easy to please.

Spencer glances at you, and you nod. "One more," you say. "Then it's lunchtime."

This time, he picks The Day the Crayons Quit, and the kids laugh hysterically at the sassy letters from the crayons.

Spencer even gets a short round of applause when he finished reading and closes the picture book, his cheeks pink as he smiles and thanks them.

"Okay, everyone," you announce, clapping your hands together. "Time to wash up for lunch!"

The kids scramble to line up at the sink, still chatting quietly with one another—partly about the stories, but mostly about how awesome Spencer is.

He stands by the reading chair, watching them with a mix of amusement and awe.

"You're a hit," you tease, stepping beside him.

"I think they like me more than you," he replies, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't get cocky," you say, nudging him gently.

As the kids settle at their tables with their lunches, you lead Spencer to your desk in the corner, where you've set up a couple of chairs. "So you're staying, right?" you ask, trying to sound casual.

"If you'll have me," he says, pulling out the chair across from yours.

Your desk is decorated with little figurines and gadgets, ranging from tiny animal toys blue-tacked down to the lid of a container, to a photo frame filled with pressed flowers, to a small collected of little painted rocks. It reminds Spencer a lot of Garcia's office. Colorful.

You hand him the sandwich you made for him earlier, and his eyebrows lift in surprise. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," you say, ducking your head. "But I wanted to."

You eat quietly for a moment, the sound of the kids' laughter and chatter enough to fill the space around the both of you.

Spencer watches them with a small smile, and you can't help but admire the way he fits so seamlessly into your little world. Most people would get overwhelmed, being in a room with so many little children—and it just so happens that your boyfriend isn't one of those people.

How did you get so lucky?

"They're great," he says after a while.

"They are," you agree. "A handful, but great all the same."

He looks at you then, his gaze soft and searching. "I can see why you love this so much. And I can see why they love you so much."

Your breath catches, but before you can respond with something sappy that'll more than likely make you cry, Jacob bounds over to your desk.

"Miss Y/N, can Mister Spencer come back tomorrow?"

Spencer chuckles, glancing at me like he's looking for permission.

"We'll see," you say, ruffling Jacob's hair. "If he's not too busy saving the world, maybe he can visit again."

"Promise?" Jacob asks, directing the question at Spencer.

Spencer holds up his pinky, and Jacob eagerly hooks his own tiny pinky finger around it. "Promise," Spencer says.

As Jacob runs back to his table, Spencer leans toward you, his voice low and almost a little uncertain.

"When can we have one of our own?"

[paperultra]

back of house.

Pairing: OPLA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1,113 words Warnings: Mild swearing

If it weren’t for his principles regarding women, you’re fairly certain Sanji would’ve throttled and strung you up to dry by now.

“I … I’m impressed, sweetheart,” he says with a bright smile, though under the swinging lights of the kitchen it seems more out of pain than pleasure. “You managed to burn water.”

Your cheeks flame as you peer into the blackened pot with him, all traces of the water you’d been tasked with boiling completely gone. Vanished. You have no idea how or why.

“I’m sorry, Sanji.”

“No need to apologize. Everybody makes mistakes –”

“Sanji!” you hear Zeff before you see him round the corner. “Why the hell do I smell something burning in my kitchen?”

“None of your business, old man,” Sanji snaps immediately, murmuring a quiet excuse me, dear to you before taking the pot by the handle and heading to the sink. He twists the faucet open and running water roars like thunder in your ears as he thrusts the pot underneath. “I have it under control.”

“Under control, eh?" Zeff says. He suddenly turns his squinted gaze upon you, and you shrivel. “This your doing, missy?”

“I –”

“Leave her alone,” Sanji interrupts. “I didn’t give clear enough instructions. It was my fault.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that.” Eyeing your guilty and defeated figure next to the stove, Zeff shakes his head with a sigh and points you to the door. “[Y/n], go out and wait tables for the rest of your shift.”

Immediately, you make a move to remove your apron. “Oka –”

Sanji makes a noise of dissent and turns the faucet off. “Wait tables? She can still chop the vegetables and help me plate.”

“You’ll do that yourself. Front of house needs the extra person, anyway.”

“I’m her mentor.”

“And I’m the damn boss.”

The rest of the staff roll their eyes and carry on while the two men argue in the middle of the kitchen. You swallow and take your apron off, balling it up in your hands. This isn’t the first time they’ve butted heads over your incompetence, and watching them now cuts at your last shred of dignity.

Clearing your throat, you grimace when Sanji’s head whips around to look at you.

“Zeff’s right,” you tell him. “Dinner rush is coming up soon and I’ll just be in the way, anyway.”

Zeff grunts with satisfaction.

The expression on Sanji’s face reminds you of a kicked puppy. “But …” he begins to protest.

“Oi, you heard what she said. Get back to work! We have customers waiting!”

Sanji blusters about before heading back to his station, casting you one final, forlorn look as he does so. You imagine that your own face looks just the same when you turn to leave.

—

You take orders and serve customers for the remainder of the day, as promised, and help with cleanup after closing time. And then, long after the sun’s dipped below the horizon, Sanji joins you on the upper deck with a steaming bowl of seafood fried rice.

“For the madam,” he says with a smile, offering you the bowl.

You accept it silently and take a bite as he sits down next to you. It’s perfect like it always is – savory and warm on your tongue, happy and gentle in your stomach. You’ve never known a home quite like Sanji’s cooking.

His eyes remain fixed on you as you eat all of the rice, scraping the bowl for every last grain and setting it down beside you once you’re finished.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I figured it would cheer you up.”

“It did.”

It did, and yet, your lips tremble and your throat closes up. You clench your hands into fists in your lap.

Sanji’s hand immediately presses your shoulder as you sniffle. “Are you alright?” he questions worriedly.

(His attentiveness strikes you like a hot iron sometimes, even now.)

“Why haven’t you given up on me yet?” you whisper.

His brow furrows. As if it’s obvious, he answers, “You want to be a cook. A lady’s wish is my command.” Sanji pauses. “And I can’t call myself the greatest cook in the East Blue if I can’t teach others to be great cooks as well.”

“I think you’d be the greatest regardless.”

You glance at him through watery eyes in time to see his face flush a deep red. He looks away hastily, chuckling with feigned modesty. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me.”

Your shoulders lift in a shrug as you look back down at your hands. You reach up to blot away your tears.

How could you not think the world of Sanji? Or the world of anyone at the Baratie, for that matter? When you were kicked off the merchant ship you’d stowed away on two years ago, you had been sure that you’d be banned from setting foot in such a fine-looking restaurant. Years of scorn and slammed doors had not given you the chance to think otherwise.

But Sanji spotted you on the docks, called you madam like you really were one, cooked you a meal in the kitchen and talked to you. Zeff gave you a job and a bed of your own. The staff gave you a family.

“We’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll figure out something that’ll make everything click for you, and you’ll be a proper cook in no time.” Sanji leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and winks up at you. “I promise.”

As always, your heart skips a beat.

“Okay.”

Maybe, you realize suddenly, you don’t necessarily want to be a cook so much as you want to love the way Sanji does.

“That’s my girl.” Standing up, Sanji takes your empty bowl in one hand and offers the other for you to take. “Now, shall I walk the madam to her room, or does she wish to stay out on the deck for a while?”

You allow yourself to grin, considering. “The madam wishes to stay out here and …” you hesitate but then decide to soldier on, “and possibly chat with a dear friend for a few more minutes?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

Sanji’s eyes widen a bit. Then he blinks, and then he smiles, drawing his hand back and quickly sitting down next to you once more.

“A lady’s wish is my command,” he says.

He takes out a cigarette, making a quip about Patty while he lights it, and your combined laughter rings out across the Baratie. It’s perfect like it always is – savory and warm on your tongue, happy and gentle in your stomach.

Indeed, this is home.

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #11

It's an innocent ("please," Jason sneers, "there's nothing innocent about a plagiaristic propaganda machine encouraging minors to dance for sick ol' pervs while it spews misogynistic hate speech.'"

"okay, boomer,"

"the fuck did you just call me, replacement?") TikTok, one of those ones that kind of simmers in the background for a few weeks until someone with a decent enough following posts it on the Platform Formerly Known as Twitter and from there it seriously catches traction, blowing up until Tim knocks on Bruce's office door, phone in hand. Damian stands behind him, arms crossed and clearly simmering.

Bruce, fresh off a series of zoom conferences, raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, so you haven't seen it," Tim decides, striding forward.

Bruce's eyebrow jumps a smidge higher, on the edge of concern, as Tim thrusts his phone into his grasp.

"So," he begins, reaching over to refresh the mobile page "there's a video that's been making the rounds on Twitter and—well you should probably see it," He sighs over Damian's scoff as he clicks through the pop-up asking him to sign in or join TikTok, and presses "Watch Again", unmuting the video.

🎶 "Doo, badoo-badoo-badoo Badoo-badoo-badoo-badoo,"🎶 an upbeat background song hums as someone, presumably a student, films a school hallway with their phone. They walk past students talking near their lockers, some of whom flash peace signs and silly grins as the camera swings their way before continuing on.

But the main point Bruce gets stuck on is the all lowercase white text at the center of the screen that an automated woman's voice awkwardly narrates:

"when you go to school with bruce wayne's other long lost lovechild"

The student filming comes up behind a much taller student who faces away from him, in conversation with a black haired pale teenaged girl. She spots the cameraman and shoots him a confused, disgruntled look, saying something to the boy who then turns around.

Bruce quietly observes as the camera zooms in on a boy around Tim's page, possibly older. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw, he raises an eyebrow at the one filming, looking beyond the camera, pitch black hair with blue undertones falling into his blue eyes. The camera momentarily zooms too far into those eyes then abruptly pulls back as he quirks a puzzled smile at the viewer, mouthing out an easily understandable "hi?".

The TikTok ends and seamlessly transitions to a person balancing their cat on an exercise ball with minimal success and this time Bruce presses the Watch Again button. The heart on the right side claims 750k likes.

Damian scoffs, louder, as it ends. "Clearly it is a hoax, but it has been popular among my classmates."

"The board hasn't made much noise about it—" Tim starts.

"And they won't," Bruce says, lifting his eyes from his phone. "Wayne Industries doesn't give statements on videos like these, no matter how viral they become. I've been getting lovechild claims since before I adopted Dick."

Which Tim knows, which is why his insistence on showing Bruce this one raises his hackles. He pins Tim down with a stare and despite Tim's perfected PR mask, he can see Tim is unsettled.

"B...he really, really looks like you." Tim admits. Damian scoffs for a third time and Tim shoots him a glare, "I get it, you don't see it, but you haven't seen the pictures of Bruce when he was younger."

"I don't need to!" Damian says angrily. "You're all being ridiculous!"

"All?" Bruce asks. Tim shifts awkwardly. "The family group chat has been talking," he says.

"I see," Bruce says. Because he does. Many claim Damian to be his doppelganger, but the boy actually favors Talia not just in skin tone but in the shape and color of his eyes, as well as the soft slope of her mouth and ears. Whether those features will sharpen once he goes through puberty is anyone's guess.

But this young man has Bruce's eyes. Martha's eyes.

That night they have a suspiciously full house for dinner, with even Jason dropping in, but no one says anything until Barbara wheels in for dessert, carrying a manila folder on her lap.

"What?" she says, when everyone stares. "Dick told me it was crème brûlée today!"

Bruce extends a hand wordlessly, and Barbara sheepishly hands the folder over.

"Bruce," she says, before he can open it, "I wouldn't have looked into this normally, but,"

"Just say it," Jason says, leaning back in his chair. "Take away the gray hairs, the receding hairline, and the wrinkles and the kid's a dead match."

"Take it back, Todd," Damian growls, "Father has a very full head of hair!"

"Not to mention a failed track record at keeping it in his pants, Exhibit A," Jason continues, pointing a fork at Damian, "oh wait," he says gleefully, "kid is definitely 18, so I guess that would make you Exhibit B!"

The table erupts, cutlery tinkling as Damian gets a knee up on the table to hurl himself at a cackling Todd, Dick jumping up to grab him as the others lean out of the way—

"Ahem!" Everyone stops cold as Alfred stands in the doorway, porcelain ramekins of crème brûlée stacked perfectly on a silver tray. Under his gaze, everyone sits back down, Damian and Jason both quietly uttering a "Sorry Alfie/Alfred," as they straighten up.

Bruce is oblivious to the chaos, Barbara biting her lip beside him as he stares blankly inside the folder at the printed copy of an adoption certificate.

Two days and several million likes later, another TikTok goes viral from the same user. Caught in the moment as whoever is filming runs up to the group, the same young man is chatting with a blonde in a red letterman jacket, a partially formed crowd around them. Even with one leg still in the cafeteria table, he towers over everyone.

"—sh. Look, we're all possibly Bruce Wayne's son!" the boy snarks. He has his hands out, palms up as if he's making a great point, and as he looks around he catches sight of the cameraman and his smirk drops.

"Ah Mac, c'mon dude not again—" and the TikTok ends.

[cloudcountry]

ive been waiting on this one, sorry if its lame: mc comes back from a mission and everyone is so tired they forget shes still wearing the fox cloak when she leaves. the ghoul boys remember and head to her room to help only to find her already asleep. Thing is, she is obviously dreaming of them in her sleep because the fox cloak transformed into their clothes. how do the boys react? any ghouls you want but please at least haku, alan, towa, jiro, and lyca

btw im the anon thats new to the game and i love these characters all so much!

SUMMARY: alan, towa, haku, lyca, and jiro walking in on you sleeping while dreaming of them with the fox robe on! (PHEW thats a mouthful)

COMMENTS: THIS IS SUCH A CUTE IDEA ANON !!!! i wrote this so fast（；´д｀）ゞ

Truthfully, I don’t think Alan understands at first. He stands in your doorway, hunched over to make himself smaller, always conscious of how fragile your dorm is. The floorboards creak under his shifting weight as he debates whether or not to go inside and wake you up.

Then, you groan. It’s a soft sleepy noise but it makes him freeze. You hadn’t woken up, had you? He’d feel horrible if you couldn’t get rest because of him. 

That’s when he notices. His yellow uniform vest peaks out from the flaps of the cloak. His mind stumbles, confused as to why you’d be wearing a Vagastrom vest to bed and where you would have acquired one in the first place.

But then, a soft mumble of his name leaves your lips, and the realization hits him like a punch in the gut.

Alan stands by your door, as stoic as ever, heart pounding in his ears. You, with the fox robe over your shoulders, dreaming of him with a serene look on your face.

But...you don’t look like you're having a nightmare—are you really not scared?

Towa has no concept of personal space! Dandelion, you look so cozy all snuggled up in the fox robe, he wants to join too!

And so, Towa bounces over to your bed, about to throw himself next to you (and most likely wake you up) when he freezes.

Your legs are covered in what looks like his white jumpsuit. He leans closer, tilting his head to get a better look.

It shouldn't be your size—how did you get one that fits you so well, Dandelion?

Reaching out, his fingers brush against the robe before taking it in his hand. As gently as he can, he pulls it aside, breathing heavily as a perfect copy of his jumpsuit is revealed.

“Silly Dandelion,” he coos, nuzzling your cheek, “You’re so cute.”

Haku is one of the faster ones to catch on. There’s some comment about undressing you that rests at the tip of his tongue, but he never gets the chance to tell you. When he knocks on your door, you do not respond.

“I’m coming in, princess,” he warns.

When the door swings open, he’s met by the sight of you, curled up in bed with the cloak wrapped around your shoulders. Sighing deeply, Haku can’t help the affectionate smile that spreads across his face.

Really, princess? Going to sleep with that robe on and dressing in his clothes?

You don’t know what you do to him.

Heart fluttering like a caged butterfly, Haku sits on the bed next to your sleeping form.

“Sweet dreams, beautiful,” he murmurs, testing the new name on his tongue, liking how it sounds, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hey, you forgot to take the cloak off—oh.”

Lyca bursts into your room with the intention of fretting over you, only to be met with your sleeping form. He’s careful when he crosses the room, face pulled into a deep frown as he concentrates on not making a sound.

Of course you passed out, that moth-eaten Cassanova had run you ragged for no reason at all. If it was up to Lyca, he’d help you with everything, and you’d never have to be alone again!

“Lyca...” you mumble, flipping onto your back.

He jerks back at not only the sound of his name, but the sight of you wearing his dorm uniform. Furrowing his brow, Lyca comes to the slow realization that you must be dreaming of him.

Overcome by instinct, Lyca kneels down by your side. If anyone were to walk in at this very moment, they’d see Lyca’s frustrated face and assume he was angry.

Truthfully, he was anything but—you never failed to catch him off guard with your kindness.

Jiro doesn’t see a problem with just...barging into your room if it’s for the sake of collecting the fox robe. The rise and fall of your chest and your deep breathing indicate to him that you’re fast asleep.

He just dropped you off a couple minutes ago. Were you really that tired? Perhaps he should look into it.

Crossing your room, he makes his way to your bedside. It’s then that he notices the details of his dorm uniform peeking from underneath the robe.

You’re dreaming about him. Unsurprising, considering you spent most of the day on a mission with him and Yuri.

It’s almost clinical, the way he unties the robe from your shoulders and gently tugs it off of you. His clothes on you are more obvious than ever now, and Jiro can’t help but feel a spike of...something shoot through his heart.

Huh. He should study that emotion further.

[aftertheleaving]

BED ME IN BLÜDHAVEN

Pairing: Dick Grayson x fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,625

Genre: Smut, one-shot

Warnings: Explicit smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), semi-public flirting, alcohol (champagne), mention of stripping (non-judgmental), praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, soft aftercare

Notes: First fic!! Be gentle. This was pure indulgence and I regret nothing. This has been sat in haitus until 3 hours ago for *checks date* 11 months. Uhmmmm yeah so First time writing smut.

Set loosely post-gala, reader-insert format, 2nd person POV. Dick is a menace in the sheets and you’ll thank him for it.

You told your friend you weren’t the right person to bring to a gala — let alone a Wayne gala. But she had insisted, and you’re not a bad friend, so you let all further arguments die in your throat and agreed.

She dressed you up, picked the dress, did your makeup — even chose your perfume, all under the guise that for your first time attending a gala, you had to be perfect.

And now, here you are: pressed into an alcove with none other than Richard Grayson himself — or, as he prefers, Dick.

You’d both been eyeing each other all night from across the room. Slowly inching closer with every pass, every glance, every accidental brush of attention. Then came the introductions. Aimless, flirty conversation that got nowhere fast — but neither of you seemed to care.

Now, five champagne flutes later, you're half-dizzy and mulling over his offer to go to his place.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, trying to keep your tone casual. You fail — it comes out a little breathless.

He smiles. “Sweet.”

He gently takes you by the arm, the warmth of his hand steady and confident as he leads you through the crowd. Before stepping out, he disposes of both your champagne flutes with a grace that feels almost too polished. You notice he’s only had one drink all night — deliberate. Responsible.

At the bike, he crouches without a word and starts unlacing his shoes.

“What are you—?”

“You’re not walking into my building barefoot,” he says. “And you can’t ride in those heels.”

You blink. He slides his shoes toward you.

“And here,” he adds, peeling off his jacket, “you’ll want this. That dress might hike up when you’re on the bike.”

You slip it on. It’s warm. Smells like him.

The ride to Blüdhaven blurs. His bike hums beneath you, the city lights flashing past like comets. One of his hands stays on your thigh behind him the entire way, thumb tracing soft, slow circles. Comforting. Possessive. It only ever leaves you when he shifts his grip to navigate sharp corners — and every time it returns, it feels bolder.

By the time you pull up to his apartment, your heart is pounding again.

He helps you off the bike, keeps his hand on your lower back as he walks you upstairs. You barely register the sound of the key in the door before it swings shut — and then he’s on you.

His hand cups your cheek as his lips crash against yours, warm and demanding. His other hand finds your waist, drawing you flush against him.

“I’ve wanted you since I saw you walk into that gala,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You let out a slight whimper when his hands grip your waist a bit tighter and he tilts his head to kiss you at a better angle, biting your lip and running his tongue along it, prodding you to open up. You obey his request and part your lips, letting him in — his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that makes your knees wobble.

Without breaking the kiss, his hands shift, firm on your hips, guiding you backward with slow, intentional steps. You feel the click of a door opening behind you, cool air brushing the back of your legs as you step into the darker room.

It smells like him.

Faint leather, like the inside of a motorcycle jacket. Gasoline — just a trace, like it’s clinging to the edge of a memory. And something warmer… maybe vanilla, or toasted marshmallow — you can’t tell, only that it’s soft and sweet and him.

The air feels heavier in here.

He walks you backward until your knees bump the edge of the bed. Finally, he breaks the kiss — not harshly, but slowly, like he’s reluctant to let go. His eyes lock onto yours as he presses a hand to your shoulder and gently nudges you back.

You fall onto the mattress, breath catching in your throat, and he just watches for a second — gaze roaming over you, lips parted like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you laid out for him.

He stands there for another second or two before he swiftly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles flexing with the movement, the soft lighting casting golden shadows along the lines of his chest and stomach. You barely have a second to breathe before he’s on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as he crawls forward, slow and deliberate, until he hovers over you.

He holds himself up on his forearms, dipping low enough that the warmth of his breath fans across your skin. One hand reaches up, fingers threading gently through your hair to tuck a strand behind your ear. Then he leans in — lips brushing your jaw with light, teasing kisses that gradually trail down to the sensitive spot beneath your earlobe.

He lingers there, open-mouthed, sucking kisses into your skin until you're arching slightly into him, head tilting to give him more. A shaky, breathy moan leaves your lips as your eyes flutter shut — every nerve buzzing under the slow drag of his mouth.

His hands roam your sides, gliding up and down in slow, reverent strokes like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with touch alone. Then, pausing for a breath, he lifts one hand — calloused fingers brushing over your left shoulder where your dress strap rests.

He hooks a finger under it, but doesn’t tug. Not yet. His head lifts, and he looks down at you — his expression soft but intense, eyes dark with want, but patient.

“May I?” he asks, voice low and slightly husky, one brow raised ever so slightly, as if even now he wants to make sure you’re with him. That you want this too.

You nod, lips parting slightly as your hand reaches up to pull him back down into a kiss. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply before pulling away just enough to tap your hip.

“Lift up for me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You do, hips tilting up as he gently slides the dress down your body, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited forever to open. The fabric slips past your legs and off the bed, leaving you in nothing but your panties — the built-in bra long gone with the dress.

He breathes out, eyes dragging down your form with something reverent behind them. “So, so pretty,” he whispers, voice soft but full of need.

Then he leans back in, lips trailing from your mouth down your jaw again, to your neck, pressing slow kisses that grow warmer and more desperate. His path continues downward — past the hollow of your throat, over the tops of your breasts — until his mouth finds one.

His hand slides up to cup the other as his lips wrap around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking gently, then harder when you let out a sharp breath and a soft moan. He groans in response, clearly loving every sound he pulls from you. He gives the same attention to the other, lips and hands working in tandem, until your back arches and your fingers tangle in the sheets.

Then, with one final kiss between your breasts, he begins to move lower. Kissing down your stomach, slow and thorough, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

He pauses, looking up at you.

“Please,” you breathe, voice almost shaking, chest rising and falling with every second of tension.

He smirks — a soft, knowing thing — and dips down, using his mouth to grip the waistband, pulling them down with maddening slowness until they’re off and tossed somewhere behind him.

He sits back on his haunches, eyes roaming your body like he’s starving. His lips part, breath coming heavier now.

“So beautiful,” he whispers again, almost to himself.

Then he leans forward, hands running slowly up the outsides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin near your hips.

He shifts slowly, lowering himself between your legs, hands spreading your thighs gently as he settles in. His breath hitches the moment he sees you — already wet, glistening in the low light of his room.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost reverently, eyes locked on your center.

He swallows thickly, then looks up at you one more time. “You sure you want to do this?”

You nod, a need-filled whisper tumbling from your lips. “Need you, Dick.”

That’s all he needs.

He nods once, serious and calm, and brings his hand up. His fingers trail lightly through your folds, parting you slowly. You twitch under his touch, already slick and pulsing with need.

“You’re so wet for me already,” he says softly, almost in awe, “and I haven’t even really touched you yet.”

Before you can reply, mid-sentence — with absolutely no warning — he presses a single finger into you. You gasp, hips twitching up, unprepared for the sudden fullness.

“God,” he groans, eyes flicking up to yours, “so tight... and it’s just one finger.”

He starts a slow rhythm, finger curling just right with each pump, stretching you, loosening you up. The way your body squeezes around the digit makes him groan again.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours now, “taking me so well already.”

His free hand rests on your thigh, grounding you while the other works steadily. Each movement is precise, practiced — meant to tease and prep and make you fall apart just from this.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises softly, voice dropping lower, “gonna make you feel even better.”

Without pulling away, he leans in to kiss your inner thigh, slow and reverent, while his hand keeps its rhythm — and then he slides in a second finger. You arch beneath him, a breathy moan slipping from your lips at the stretch.

“Still so tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But fuck… your body’s taking it.”

His fingers curl, hitting that sensitive spot just right, and then—his thumb presses down, firm and unrelenting, against your clit. He begins slow, steady circles, gauging your every reaction, eyes locked on your face.

“I want you to come just like this,” he whispers, voice deep and rough. “On my fingers. Want to feel you pulse around me, hear you moan for me.”

His mouth is everywhere now—kisses on your inner thigh, your hipbone, then back to your stomach. But his hand never stops, never slows. He keeps curling his fingers perfectly with each stroke, rubbing tight circles over your clit with his thumb.

“You’re getting close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your stomach, smirking when you whimper and nod. “I can feel it… the way you’re clenching—fuck, that’s so hot.”

His pace intensifies just slightly, not rushing, but purposeful. You’re shaking now, legs tensing under his weight.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice low and urgent. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Your breathing hitches, the pressure inside you coiling tighter with every curl of his fingers and swipe of his thumb. Each motion is deliberate, practiced — he knows exactly what he’s doing. Your body’s trembling, the pleasure building sharp and dizzying like a wave gathering force just before the crash.

Your hips buck without your permission, grinding into his hand, chasing the high that’s about to hit. Your thighs tense around his arm, your hand flying out to grip at his forearm—digging in, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks as the rhythm of his fingers sends you teetering on the edge.

“God—Dick, I—” you gasp, barely forming words. The pressure peaks, and then—

You fall apart.

Your whole body jolts with the release. Your back arches, mouth falling open in a silent cry before the moans spill out. Your muscles clench hard around his fingers, pulsing with the force of your orgasm. Your head tilts back into the sheets, lips parted, and all you can do is ride the waves of pleasure as they crash over you, again and again.

He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even hesitate.

The second your orgasm hits, he pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and lowers himself without a word. His hands find your thighs, spreading you open, holding you in place as his mouth meets your center with reverence and hunger.

He moans the moment his tongue finds you, like you’re his favorite flavor.

“Fuck—you taste so good,” he groans against you, voice muffled by your heat. “So sweet… I need more.”

His tongue starts slow, long languid licks through your folds, savoring every drop of your release. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open for him as he kisses your pussy like he means to worship it — teasing, tracing circles, then diving in deeper, tongue flicking your clit and drawing out another moan from your already oversensitive body.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes between licks. “Could do this all fucking night.”

And with the way he’s eating you out like a man starved, you believe it.

You’re shaking.

Every nerve ending is raw now, buzzing with the aftershocks of the first orgasm, and yet he’s still between your thighs, merciless in his patience.

His tongue drags up your slit in maddeningly slow, treacherous licks, savoring every flick, every reaction he wrings from you. It’s too much — but not enough. Your hips jerk at each pass of his tongue, and when he lets his finger join in, pressing a lazy, slow circle against your clit — you whimper, thighs twitching.

“Fuck—Dick, I can’t—” you gasp, the edge of overstimulation turning everything sharp and electric.

But when you try to clamp your legs closed around his head, he just grunts against you, unbothered. One strong arm holds your thigh back, his elbow braced just right so the hand circling your clit doesn’t stop. His other palm keeps your leg spread wide. You’re helpless like this. Exposed, pulsing, trembling — and he knows it.

“C’mon, baby,” he mutters against your cunt, the vibration of his voice making you jolt. “Let me have one more. Just one more.”

The words send another jolt through you. Your hands fly to his hair, fisting tight, trying to ground yourself as he keeps licking—deliberate, torturous. He alternates between featherlight flicks and deep, flat swipes, never giving you the rhythm your body craves, just teasing and dragging it out.

You’re bucking into his face, whimpering now, moaning shamelessly as your second climax creeps up slow. So slow it feels unbearable. A dull burn, tightening and tightening until you’re panting, eyes screwed shut, fingers yanking at his hair.

And he’s so hard it hurts.

Still in his suit trousers, he can feel his cock throbbing, leaking through the fabric. But he doesn't stop. Can’t stop — not when your moans sound like this. Not when you're this wet and trembling against his mouth. Not when he can taste how close you are.

“Please—Dick, I—ohmygod—” Your breath comes in short, choked bursts as he presses his tongue hard against your clit now, sucking it between his lips just once before replacing it again with his fingers — faster, this time.

You’re spiraling.

The pressure explodes all at once.

Your body arches off the bed, thighs shaking as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. Your breath stutters — a sob of pleasure ripping from your chest — and you can’t stop the way you cry out his name, drawn out and raw.

“Dick—fuck—!”

He doesn’t stop. He holds you open, tongue still working you through it, gentler now, but persistent. Like he’s determined to taste every shiver, every twitch of your hips. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling, gripping tight as your body rides the high, drawn out by his hands, his mouth, his absolute devotion to your pleasure.

Finally, finally — the aftershocks subside. Your body slumps back to the mattress, limp, breathless, overwhelmed.

He pulls back just a bit, his mouth wet, lips parted. His eyes rake over you — all flushed skin and trembling limbs — and he looks proud, like he just unlocked some secret in you.

But then he shifts.

He starts crawling up the bed toward you, slow and deliberate. One hand slides up your thigh again, but this time it’s not to hold you still. It’s to press the thick, aching outline of his cock — still straining behind his dress pants — against the inside of your thigh.

“Can you give me one more?” he asks, voice rough, low, pupils blown wide with want. He leans in, mouth ghosting over your cheek as his hand trails from your thigh to your waist, anchoring there. “Can I have you now? I need you, baby. I need to feel you.”

And you can’t even think — the answer’s already leaving your lips before you’re aware of it.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Need you, Dick. Need your cock. Now.”

He groans, head falling to your shoulder as he curses under his breath — like those words alone nearly undid him.

“Fuck,” he says, voice hoarse. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He slowly undoes the button on his pants, the faintest clink breaking the quiet between you. You watch as he pulls the zipper down and slides the fabric off, revealing his boxer briefs. His cock springs free, hard and leaking pre-cum, the tip glistening with anticipation as it presses gently against his stomach.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. Then, with a slow, careful motion, he guides himself forward, the tip sliding just past your folds. His eyes lock onto yours, searching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.

When you give the faintest nod, he eases in deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. He pauses, giving you time to adjust, his hand steadying your leg as he shifts slowly. When you tap him gently, signaling he can move, he pulls back just slightly before sliding forward again.

Your moans mix together, low and urgent, as he sets a steady rhythm—changing the angle to find exactly where you need him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clutching his hair as he buries himself deeper, the tightness wrapping around him like a glove.

The heat between you intensifies as he moves, each slow thrust driving deeper, drawing out your moans. His grip on your hips tightens just enough to keep you grounded, while his other hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer with every motion. Your body arches instinctively, matching his pace, craving more of the delicious pressure and connection.

His breath hitches against your skin as he kisses your jaw, trailing down to your neck with soft, desperate nips. The scent of him—something like leather and warmth—wraps around you, making your head spin.

You feel your walls flutter tightening around him as you edge closer to your release, the ache building hotter and hotter. He senses it too, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, deeper, seeking to push you over the edge. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

And then, with a shuddering moan, your body clenches around him, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. He holds you steady, his own groan vibrating deep in his chest as he rides out your pleasure, lips pressed to your temple, whispering how beautiful you are.

He doesn't stop moving until his rhythm falters—thrusts turning sloppy, desperate—and the tight grip he has on your hips becomes possessive. His forehead presses to yours, lips parted as his breath fans over your cheek, and then with one deep, shuddering groan that rumbles through his chest—low, sinful, and wrecked—he spills inside you. The sound of his release, the heat of it, sends a final thrill down your spine.

For a moment, neither of you moves. He holds himself over you, catching his breath, eyes fluttering closed as he whispers your name like it’s sacred. Then, slowly and carefully, he lowers himself to rest on top of you, supporting most of his weight on his forearms, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin, voice still hoarse and breathless.

You nod, still panting. “Yeah… more than okay.”

A soft, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “You’re amazing,” he says gently, brushing a stray hair from your face before slowly pulling out, hissing a little at the sensitivity.

You flinch slightly too, body twitching at the overstimulation. “Sorry,” he whispers with a wince. “I’ll be right back.”

He stands and disappears for a minute, returning with a warm, damp towel. “Let me take care of you,” he says softly, kneeling beside you as he starts to gently clean you up. Every so often, you twitch again and he murmurs apologies with every touch. Once he’s done, he sets the towel aside and offers you one of his shirts to slip into, waiting until you’re comfortable before quickly cleaning himself up too.

Then he climbs into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up over both your bodies. He reaches for you immediately, gathering you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin.

You feel his heartbeat slowing down against your cheek. His thumb strokes lazy circles along your back as you start to drift, and the last thing you hear is his voice, low and content:

“Stay with me tonight, yeah?"

You only manage a quiet, sleepy “yeah” in response as he presses a kiss to your hair—and though he doesn’t ask, you’re sure you feel him smile.

Tbh went better than I expected. Anyway I'm open to minor criticism and feedback on if I need improvements or some shit. Anyway bye bye.

[oopsiedaisydeer]

naptime... featuring blanket burrito

fluff, sleepy, blanket burrito, playful banter, lazy afternoon, silly, lighthearted, intimate, affectionate, snuggling, attempted mummification, cuddling, cozy, warm

based off this request!

word count - 700ish

The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky, casting golden light across the living room. You and Matt were sprawled out on the couch, surrounded by an overwhelming number of pillows that you'd both ended up tossing everywhere. You were curled up in a blanket, your head resting against his chest, his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. Everything felt slow and warm, like the world was moving at half-speed.

Matt’s fingers were gently brushing through your hair, slow and absent-minded, making you feel like you were melting into the couch. You could hear his quiet humming, a song you couldn’t quite place, but it was soothing enough to make your eyelids droop.

"Hey, can I borrow your blanket for a second?" Matt mumbled, his voice muffled by the yawn that followed. His hand was sneaking under the edge of your blanket, trying to claim a bigger share of it, like he didn’t already have half of it.

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “Excuse me? The blanket is mine. I’m the one who’s cold.”

He grinned, pulling the blanket a little higher so it covered his shoulders too. "It’s a team effort. We share the blanket, remember?" he teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You don't want me to freeze, do you?"

You giggled, shifting to snuggle into his side more. "Fine, but if you steal the last corner, we’re having a pillow fight."

Matt’s eyes widened comically, and he dramatically placed his hand over his heart. "A pillow fight? I’ll never recover from that," he said, mock-horrified. “I’ll have to start training in my spare time. Practice my pillow swing, get my moves down."

You laughed, the sound light and carefree, and his playful grin made your heart flutter. He pulled you closer, wrapping you up in the blanket like a burrito, both of you half-laughing, half-trying to settle into a nap.

You squirmed as he tried to roll you up in the blanket, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I’m going to get so sweaty in here," you complained, your voice muffled as he tucked the blanket around you tighter.

Matt just chuckled, using the blanket like a cocoon, pulling it around you both until you could barely move. "It’s for warmth. You’ll thank me later."

You made a small noise of protest, trying to wriggle free from his tight grip, but he held you firm. "You’re mummifying me, Matt," you groaned dramatically, your voice muffled under layers of warmth.

"Exactly," he said, his tone smug as he squeezed you a little tighter. "It’s the perfect snuggle method. You just need to stop fighting it."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile couldn’t hide how happy you were. "Okay, fine, but you’re not stealing my side this time."

He gave an exaggerated gasp. "I’d never steal your side! You’re safe. I’m a gentleman." His voice was so ridiculous, it made you laugh, your shoulders shaking against his chest.

Finally, after some more awkward squirming and giggling, the two of you settled into the blanket burrito. Matt lay back, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he tucked his head under the edge of the blanket and wrapped his arms around you. You, still half-swaddled, shuffled closer, burying your face against his chest. The blanket was warm and cozy, like being inside a giant, soft hug.

"Comfy?" Matt asked, his voice almost sleepy as he brushed your hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

You nodded, your face pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt. “Yeah. This is actually… really nice,” you mumbled, already feeling the heaviness of sleep creeping in.

“I feel like a big, fuzzy pillow right now.” Matt mumbled, his voice muffled against your shoulder, his arm snug around you.

“Yeah, you’re like my personal body pillow,” you said with a teasing smile. “But with more… unnecessary commentary.”

He let out a fake gasp of offense. “Unnecessary commentary? Excuse me, I’m providing top-tier entertainment right now.”

Before you could reply, you both yawned at the same time, your words dissolving into sleepy murmurs. Matt shifted, settling his head more comfortably against yours, and the two of you sank deeper into the couch, the world outside slipping away. You were both tangled in blankets, with Matt’s heartbeat as the only sound, the absurdly comfortable silence stretching on until you drifted off to sleep, his arm still securely around you, as if you were both meant to stay like this forever.

thank u rose for the dividers !! @bernardsbendystraws

a/n: kind of a need. a want. okay maybe i fw fluff more than i thought bc i loved this request<3

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @hazedsturns @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart @cowboylikenat @camzeecorner @sturniolo101 @courta13 @sweetshuga @st7rnioioss @throatgoat4u @shadowthesim237 @emely9274 @sturnberries @bluestriips

much love !!

[zorosangell]

⛥ﾟ・。 round two

synopsis: things get a little heated during a sparring session between you and the moss-haired swordsman. and the results are... inconclusive.

cw: part 2/3 (possibly more), fluffy fluff, comfort, awkward zoro, awkward reader, i hate writing fight scenes

a/n: this took me ridiculously long for no reason

"Are you wearin' down on me, swordsman?" you asked, cockily, letting out a small grunt as your broad sword clashed with his katana, sending sparks flying through the air. "I thought your parries were faster than that."

He scoffed at your obvious taunt, biting back a smirk as you both pushed off, landing on opposite sides of the crow's nest for a quick breather.

"I could ask you the same thing," he panted, rolling his shoulders. "Footwork's gettin' sloppy."

You snorted, the adorable sound resonating deeply within the swordsman's chest.

"You wish my footwork was sloppy."

Just like that, you both were back at it, attacking and counter-attacking each other at speeds many could never hope of achieving.

And you both were only sparring.

"I think that's bounty's starting to go to your head," you weaved around one of his swings. "A billion berries can't buy you a new neck to support it."

He chuckled, forgoing the direct approach and opting to attack your sides, shifting his stance in order to compensate.

"Spoken like fifth place," he grinned, teasingly. "If I knew any better, I'd say you're jealous."

You gasped at the outlandish statement, nearly losing focus as he swung for your hip, your sword just barely making it in time to divert before you attempted to sweep his feet.

Sadly, he manged to jump out the way.

"I am not jealous!" you scoffed, throwing away your sword—the signal to begin the hand-to-hand section of your session, "I don't know if you've forgotten, but I entered this little race a little later than everyone else. And I still managed to make it to 950 million."

It was true.

The day after the banquet, your mother had all but kicked you out of the castle, going on and on about how as heir to the throne, it was your duty to explore the world before assuming the position, and that joining Luffy's crew was the opportunity of a lifetime.

And, of course, you understood her point, seeing as she had personal experience—she began traveling the seas around the same age with some infamous pirate crew led by a man named Rocks.

Though, a small part of you was a little worried.

You had never even stepped foot off Nabis before, so how the hell were you going to sail across the sea?

But, to your surprise, you managed to get along swimmingly with the Strawhats.

Making jokes... telling stories... sharing scars.

In fact, it went so well that by the time the banquet was over, Luffy was practically begging you to join—he reasoned that he had never met a real knight before, and wanted one on his crew.

Which brought you here, several hundred miles away from home and on month six of your journey across the sea.

Sprinting forward, you both quickly began exchanging hands, weaving, dodging, and striking in almost perfect sync.

Zoro grinned, pleasantly surprised to see that you'd taken the offensive this time, your movements speeding up in an obvious ploy to distract him while you dealt a final blow to his feet.

'Gonna have to do better than that.'

To say you both were "just crewmates" would be a criminal understatement.

You both were infinitely more than that.

Your relationship was completely different from what he had with the rest of the crew, from what he'd ever had with anybody before.

Sure, he and Sanji were relative in strength, but the cook didn't care about training, and the swordsman couldn't stand him, anyway.

He and Luffy were close, but the captain would much rather goof off and eat than work out, much less converse about sword techniques.

You were the first person to actively share the same interests as him, and actually have the strength to match.

If he finished a thousand push-ups, you finished a thousand push-ups.

If he was holding weighted handstands, you were holding weighted handstands.

If he was doing four-hundred pound squats across the deck, you were doing four-hundred pound squats across the deck, all the while chatting about a new thing you learned or a new weapon you'd been meaning to buy.

And it wasn't just training.

You and the swordsman did practically everything in equal measure.

Drinking... napping... laughing, everything.

He'd be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy it, and he'd be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy you.

Suddenly feeling something attack his ankles, Zoro's eyes went wide, the man grunting as you swept his feet and knocked him on his ass.

But before he could even think to counter, you pounced, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists above his head with a triumphant grin.

"How's that... for fifth place?" you panted, taking a moment to bask in your victory.

You had never beaten him in hand-to-hand before.

Embarrassment burned up Zoro's neck at how easily he was taken down, his cheeks taking on a faint tinge of pink.

Not only because of that, but because of your compromising position.

With the way you were sitting, and the way you were leaning, your core was parked right on top of his crotch, and your tits were hanging right in his face.

'Goddamn it...'

And if that wasn't enough, you were wearing one of Nami's tiny tube tops and a pair of booty shorts—the navigator said your ancient wardrobe was in dire need of revitalizing.

Before you could react, Zoro used his strength to overpower you, flipping you both over and pinning your wrists above your head.

"I've seen better," he taunted, playing off his surprise.

Pissed you let your guard down, you let out a frustrated huff, leveling the swordsman with a miffed expression.

"You know, the gentlemanly thing would've been to let me have my win," you pouted, struggling in his grasp to no avail.

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that," he chuckled, his grip ironclad. "Besides, I thought you liked a challenge?"

"Don't act like I didn't have you on the ropes, swordsman," you smirked, defiantly.

"Oh, now I'm swordsman?" he cocked a brow, amused, as he leaned in closer.

"You'll be Zoro if you let me go."

"How about I be Zoro and keep you here?"

"Real caveman of you to refer to yourself like that."

"You mad me beat you again. You sore loser."

"You asshole."

At your antics, you both laughed, the sound of his genuine one sending a thrum of warmth through your stomach.

You had been surrounded by men all your life—warriors, soldiers, leaders—and not one of them ever made you feel the way you felt around him.

In his presence, you felt light as air, yet at the same time, heavy as rock.

It was indescribable, and also unprecedented.

Since birth, you'd been trained to keep your emotions in check, both as a princess and a warrior of the royal army.

Yet, somehow, whenever you joined the swordsman's company, all that training seemed to go right out the window.

As your laughter died down, your eyes met in intense stare, the air between you two quickly thickening with tension.

And suddenly, in a sharp pang of instinct, you surged forward, crashing into his lips with a little more force than intended.

Instantly, Zoro's eye blew wide, completely taken aback—though he made no move to pull away.

He wanted to do everything but that, actually.

Yet you, judging by his facial expression, quickly realized that you'd made the wrong call.

"Oh, Great Hera," you muttered, utterly mortified as you pulled away.

The man was completely frozen, his expression unreadable as he stared down at you.

"Zoro... words cannot express how—"

Without a moment's hesitation, he leaned in, one of his hands leaving your wrist and cupping your cheek, pulling you into a passionate kiss which you more than happily reciprocated.

Newly free, your hand found its way to the nape of his neck, teasing his hair as he moved to hook his arm under your waist.

At your eagerness to reciprocate, Zoro smiled into the kiss, slightly relieved that you didn't punch him in the gut or put him in a Nabisian choke hold.

This was a long time coming, and now that he had you in his clutches, he could agree it was well worth the wait.

The two of you pulled back for air, awkwardly meeting each other's gaze.

"So...?"

"Yeah," he blurted, flushed from ear to ear.

"..."

"..."

"Wanna go for Round Two?"

"Yes."